House in Alabama

The landlord asks if I will be finding another 

roommate. That’s how he will remember us. Roommates. 

I imagine telling you the news. History will remember us 

as roommates, did you know? We would laugh until 

the phone company came to collect overcharges. Two roommates, sharing 

one bedroom, one bed. He’ll do an inspection but 

he won’t notice the nest birds made 

of your hair after a backyard trim, the wisteria multiplying

for us in the spring, our books intertwined 

in the living room. Won’t know the night I bathed you in that tub 

when you couldn’t do it yourself or the scrape 

of utensils on takeout styrofoam our first day 

home. Because we were in love here. Because 

I will carry you everywhere. Everywhere: I’m already 

leaving. Someday I will live in a house where I do not fear 

people like him. I shake my head when 

he asks. No, it’s just me now. I smile past him. I know.