your stuff is here, you're in heaven
by Alyssa Payne
Museums are a product of absence
I—your curator
Your room became a thing that once held you
I—tasked to strip you out
I—tasked to decide what is important enough to keep, what objects, photographs, tissues, papers, carpet stains, ripped cotton bed sheets, journal entries from 1980 to 2015, text messages, cat bowls, cat food, your cats, that one t-shirt you couldn’t give back to your ex, LA Lakers memorabilia, diplomas, plane tickets, gift receipts, hats, and all of it that held your memory the most
I cannot decide
Your bed is already made
as if you expected to return
The sheets smell of you, still
I can see you sleeping, still
As I strip this mattress
I stand still hoping you’ll come back
tell me it was a only a dream
When the moment is gone, the dead have not risen
You have not risen
Forgive me for stuffing your favorite duvet in a brown box
In a corner
A box of jerseys collect dust
A box of slippers sit unworn
A box of sweaters unfold and fold, some with tags
Did you know you wouldn’t have time to wear them?
Forgive me for wearing one, it’s soft
Forgive me I am barefoot where you once stood
Your socks are too large for my feet
About the Author
Alyssa Payne is a poet in central California.