Trespass
By Lynda LaRocca
He was here,
eyes reflected in the
midnight kitchen window.
But those are my eyes,
his eyes
that he gave to me,
that blinked
and I was born.
On a peg in the
hallway for 20 years,
I hang his sweater,
heavy with dust.
The photographs I burned,
but I still see him,
I can smell him.
And the moaning, when I hear it
now just means
that
upstairs
somebody is dreaming,
maybe someone’s cold.
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