By Jena Woodhouse.
I kept some for myself,
because they seemed a part of her,
a slender thread I could not bear
to sever.
Other garments,
silk and velvet,
soft and polychrome,
no larger than a child’s,
like plumage of exotic
hummingbirds,
I offered to her friend,
who did what I had wanted to—
held them to her face, inhaled
their essence, murmured to herself,
“It’s almost like embracing her—
the perfume of her skin, her hair…”
We were like mourners, one week
since she’d left, yet she, alive
and well, had only moved away,
to follow dreams and visions
where they led, become an actress
in another play.
It reminded me of childhood,
when I’d find an empty shell
or recently vacated chrysalis,
and bear it carefully home
to add to my collection of sad curios—
sarcophagi in which some stage
of life or death had been outgrown:
caterpillar morphing into butterfly,
drying exquisite, vivid wings
to brave the air alone
