They said take something of hers, something soft.
I couldn’t. Everything I landed on
too painful to bear away from that house.
But here you are—her blanket hefted in
my child’s thin arms, now settled on my couch.
During the daylight hours the dog burrows
deep in your folds, and each night, cocooning
herself inside your heaviness, my girl
trails her fingers along your edges, sniffs
for a certain perfume she hopes you’ve trapped.
I take slow swigs from the Maker’s Mark, eye
you suspiciously from my corner post.
Egyptians once buried their dead with all
their goods. Gladly I’d have placed the last stone.