Things That Were Still Alive

After your funeral I went back to the house alone.
I could not close my eyes; they were stretched with horror.
I packed your clothes out of sight, your smaller belongings,
Your photograph, even, and then I lay down in my black dress.
I could not undo the zipper.

That night our cat came in from her hunting
And crouched beside me, not on your side of the bed,
Not purring. When dawn struck blood-red at the windows
She had to be fed. . . I remembered other things
That were still alive and went out back
To water the pea patch, the peppers, cucumbers,
Lettuce, corn, and the reliable
Pink moss roses you had put in for me.

I pulled a radish, bit into its earthy crispness.
All day I carried its tuft of leaves in my fist
Walking where you had walked, telling myself
That plants could in some way prove immortality.
I shall have to look into that —
Keeping the garden up, by caring for what you planted.