Dust

You told me where to put

folded laundry,

where to place the fork and spoon

on the dinner table.

You taught me about placement.

But this very final thing,

where does it go?   

In our first home,

on the dirt road

past the Baptist church,

silver and wheeled

like it’s neighbors?

In one of the beds

you slept in or

diners you swept?

In your empty wallet

or in mine?

In the corners of your

favorite bar, scattered

while I drink a

rum and coke?  

Or do I leave it, gilded

and sealed, on the bookshelf

above my bed? My boyfriend will

ask what it is and touch my cheek.

I will tell him quietly, then roll

over to face the blank wall.