Eleven in the morning
Radio voices float in the air.
She wanders through
the living room, waters a plant.
She rubs soap over her hands
looks at the suds,
feels the cool water.
Fullness in her throat,
pressure in the chest
restless, robbed,
rudderless.
She runs the water hot,
high in the bathtub
lowers herself in,
almost too hot.
He liked showers too hot.
She settles into it,
finds his razor,
his shaving cream.
First on her legs
then her armpits
and then softly, slowly
the edges of her pubic hair.
She lingers in the shaving cream
smell. His razor against her skin.
He used this razor the last time
and then pressed his face against
her, a hint of a prickle on her vulva.
October 1940
Her coat lay folded, hands resting
on the New York Times, her gaze
unfocused out the train’s window.
In the late October gloom
she unfolded her scarf
pulled it around her neck
put on the black wool coat
and buttoned up the front,
walked up Eighth Avenue
leaves yellowing dropped to the ground.
At the apartment building entrance
she wrote in clear lettering
on the back of an envelope
placed it on the banister edge
walked up the dark stairwell to the third
floor. The walls echoed her footsteps.
Three days ago she wrote:
My mind resembles Flanders Fields
all strewn with warring impulses.
The brief sound of the key in the lock
and then the empty apartment
no longer hers—
her piano, her letters in storage,
the rest: the couch, a few chairs, silverware
(except for the Navajo spoon)
all picked up by Goodwill.
She lingered by the latched window
turned back to the kitchen
where she turned on
the oven and all four burners,
sat down.
Joyce Swing Goodlatte
