When I dream  

I climb inside your grave

To be with you.

I climb inside your grave

To pull a piece of myself out

That I left behind—

I remember someone else’s

Childhood. I don’t see

Myself in old photos.

None of this, I feel,

has happened to me.

I come home to mom and dad’s

(To climb inside your grave)

And feel the staleness of a house

That hasn’t changed.

You’re everywhere.

Your ashtray untouched at the door,

Your shampoo, still in the bath,

Toothbrush on the sink,

Your shirt, on the floor next to

My bed, where mom often sleeps.

But now,

Now there are bottles of wine on

The counter and mixers in the fridge.

I step into your room

(I climb inside, I think)

where nothing’s out of place

To sit on your bed.

We threw out the sheets

That dad found you in.

I almost see him,

Another me inside of me.

He’s climbed inside to

Where I cannot reach.

I cannot reach him anymore.