coming out of the closets

...the t-shirt I bought to remember Tybee Island and our house with the pool,

the Saugatuck sweatshirt, the dress up capris for out-to-dinner,

the Steelers sweatshirt I wore when we both cheered their Superbowl victory;

at half-time, we ate homemade food that was all black and gold.

The skirt my mother wore to Theta conventions, because when we

were packing up my mom's clothes, she said it might look nice.

16 non-matching socks, a fisherman's knit sweater that will never fit again.

A dozen teaching skirts in various tones of blue jean and khaki,

that shirt she made me buy even though I never liked it.

The Three River's Arts Festival t-shirt we both got to remember a great day,

those shorts I wore in Ithaca, much to her disdain,

the shoes I wore when we first kissed, and every other pair of stinky Merrells.

The sheets we slept on in the downstairs bedroom,

the pillow cases too. Her beach towel, her washcloths.

And five other big garbage bags full of stuff my body

wore when my body was with hers.

Including these shoes, the ones on that day

when we were tourists in a graveyard in Savannah,

walking among the dead. All of it now, like bodies

carried out by a coroner, in black bags.