I sort through left-behind
         Boxes that keep
         A muddled heap
Of women’s work. I find
Wool squares she used to knit
While I sat opposite.

“Leftover life to kill,”
         Young Caitlin said
         With Dylan dead,
Yet lived with an ill will
Forty posthumous years
Of rage, fucking, and tears.

At seventy I taste
         In solitude
        Starvation’s food,
As the land goes to waste
Where her death overthrew
A government of two.