SHEDDING

I shed all clothes that feel too tight,take off my shell, the one for teaching.And the books I won’t read, I give away.No more thinking about our dogs,buried under the forsythiain my childhood home. I try to shedthe darks, the askance glanceof the world, momentswhen everything blacks. Dropthe desolation of the grocery store,the lonely feeling when something ends,incinerate the high-heeled shoes.Farewell laden knick-knacks—oh sweater from my brother,oh duplicate spatula.Goodbye to my father,the way his hands shookwhen he polished his bootsor poured pancake batterinto the iron pan.Dump the poisons in the garagefor ants and bees in the eaves,six file drawers of teaching,the sound of the highwaygrowling and sighing in the distance.No more fear for my children,that jolt in the chest imagining themspilling out of smashed cars,or sinking into solitude and grief.I shake the sand out of my shoes,shed the sugar,keep dusting and dustingas yellow pollen blowsout of the pines.