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Elisabeth Sharp McKetta

Forget everything about him except for the raspberries.
Names aren’t required, and let the directions to his house
slide out of your car at the gas station.

Leave the jacket he wore, the movies he showed you,
his offering of fire and of a gray house. Forget wifehood,
erase his cats for god’s sake, and let his gardening
flutter to the dirt. His garden

is dying, without you. The carrots never uncurled their roots,
and the spinach crinkled and stank. Only the grass lives,
because you forgot the sunlight and by default it rained.
Remember the raspberries which he (over dinner one evening)
scattered into your hands.