Dead roaches pool flat and limp
down the garage, the air
smells of tungsten and thick rain.
The river, she says, they’re
covering it up. New walkway.
Where would the water go, she says.

Then,

pulling from the tapestry of her
memory shelf. There are board games,
stationery, unused journals, bracelets,
earrings, a $25 Precious Moments.
If only I said,
Are you sure you’re giving these all away.
If only I said,
These probably have a lot of sentiment.
She would reconsider.
And I wouldn’t hold these fossils
of thinking about buying, then buying,
then lending, then using, then storing,
then forgetting, then finally
discarding. Falling into
the vacuum underneath
the lining of the heart muscle in charge of
letting things go.

Her daughter asks her to keep something.
Her high school diploma. She thinks about that.

The ride back home was bone-chilling per the rain, and
the driver babbled about a ****** encounter.

The road
damp, the windows ebbing with fresnels.

I pull my fingers and I watch Earth whir
past us like a conclusion unread.

España forgives the people trying
To find their way during Holy Week.

We go the wrong way,
and still end up here,
home, together.