A cube of soil so rich I want to eat
my mother’s chocolate cake,
but this won’t crumble. It holds its shape
when I perch it on my palm
after peeling away the black plastic.
Translucent roots like ghostly wire
are locked in a grip that won’t let go,
despite my pressure to loosen, to take
the form of the hole I’ve made
in this new bed.
I’m wearing your sweater,
the green one that zips up the side,
the one that housed your warmth
in those last cold days. Its fibers,
infused with flakes of your skin,
settle around me, trying
to remake your shape.
