It follows me like fog, filling
the bottom of my teacup,
lifting to surround me as if
it were the smell of dead flowers,
reaching into the corner
of the self I can’t wash off.
If I sweep the floor or water
the plants, jealousy wraps
around my body like tentacles.

Grief never closes the door
on imagination: weights hold down
my arms making it hard to dress
the baby—in fights with sleep,
dreams bruise themselves black
and blue.