A pair of Victoria’s Secret size fours
found in my top bureau drawer
the day after you swept through the
apartment
determined to retrieve everything
that was yours, pack
up the Volvo
and move out for good.
Maroon high-cuts
I wrap in white tissue,
fold into a silver Bloomingdale’s bag,
then carry in my arms
into the garden.
I dig a hole next to the overripe
tomatoes.
The sunflowers you used to hang
in the front hall closet to dry,
bend in the afternoon sun.
The bag is lowered by its string
handles
while I recite as much of a Roy Orbison
song as I can remember
then fill in the grave with handfuls
of black soil.
For a marker, the plastic flamingo
you insisted on bringing back
from our only trip to Florida.
A simple ceremony
for something left behind.