I had weeded, hemmed, counted, 
raked, cleaned. I had written myself 
reminders: I needed 
to wash the curtains. I had
a knot of nettles in my throat,
I couldn’t swallow. Swallow,
swallow, I’d say aloud.
	I was asleep when he died. 
	I did not wake when he died. 
I stood in his orchard. Heard 
the wind stuff night into the tree.
I thought of his clothes. I had 
stuffed them in a plastic bag &
vacuumed the air out of it:


I had sucked his air out of his clothes.
I walked to Las Positas Road,
to Peregrina street, to Pueblo.
From Pueblo up to Stanley, 
to Las Positas. I remembered 
to wash the curtains. 
I remembered to feed the cats.
	I was asleep when he died. 
	I did not wake when he died.
I broke the brown bowl he loved. I had 
filled it with water for the birds.
Four years of drought & the birds 
were dying — the hills too. No 
clouds. California was burning. 
I turned the radio off, hearing this. 
I squeezed my thumbs in my fists.
	I was asleep when he died.
I had to go, I had to leave —  
I couldn’t remember for where,
I couldn’t remember for what.
I drove North on the 101, in the dark, 
to Refugio Beach. 

I listened to Dylan:
She left with the man
with the long black coat.
I made a U-turn —  
	I did not wake when he died. 
The mountains are
filled with lost sheep.
I counted the cars I passed   
(fifty two, plus seventeen 
trucks & a bus) drove past 
our house to Stella’s Café: 
He loved to go there
for Happy Hour, he & I 
loved to walk there, 
he & I, we’d —      
	
	& then — there, 
	suddenly in Stella’s 
	parking lot, 

the tears.