The picture of the two of them so young
in a place they’ve since forgotten
still makes sense even though there is something missing from his blood
and we have to clean our hands every time we touch the spoons.
When a story in the paper is contained in a living room
with cats under the table and cherries in a blue bowl,
it’s easy to smile about other things
and wear bright sweaters
and forget how often old photographs become poems.
Then it's crouching beside stacks of dusty books she used to teach
and realizing she probably won’t again
even though there are still bookmarks and dog-eared pages,
when the moment wonders if tomorrow when everything is white
it will be the afterimages
keeping him alive.