when the chayote skin dried out

& its roots withered

         like fish vertebrae in my hand

I took her clothes         from the closet

         & splayed them         out in front of me

    kneeling on the wooden floor:

         meshes of azure         & coral pulled

from sea.         it was like

         watching a sailor in shipwreck,         afloat

among the algae blooms.        not knowing

if he is struck        with foaming beauty

         or home-longing because his eyes

never tipped & leaked. I saw:

a few scattered jumpers         a wind-blown

         blouse. a purple sweater with         a bleeding lip.

a screaming orange         shirt from volunteering

         at the children’s hospital.         a home-knit

shawl.         jackets with secrets tucked

in its pocket:         a love letter, a recipe,

         a grocery list with five different

types of squashes,         a sleepy haiku.         then

perhaps another to-be shawl         or scarf or vest, with the hems

         still loose.        a green linen dress,

that she always wore when she danced.         she never danced

         in front of me.         it was always in private,

in the corridors without eyes & only         teeth. outside,

the earth was set         to simmer

         & the cicadas

burned         & the moon embers

                                           plucked a song

         & the floor held

                                 its breath

                                                      &

                       she

                                                                         danced

sometimes, when it rains soft

enough to wash the city

away from itself,

                  when the sky becomes

a constellation of unfastened fish jaws, you might

                              find

           these phantoms

                 clipped to cloth

     leaking from beneath the closet.

this orange shirt might rock in the air

with a cavity in its arms. this shawl/

scarf/vest might

unknit itself. this dress,

you might find in a corridor, or

you might not.

what I mean to say is:

I am counting days

by the amount of time it takes

to press a dried squash into my palms

until it         breaks

                         butternut, honeynut,

                             red kuri,

            kabocha,

    chayote