The Nurse Who More or Less Killed You

Cleaning out closets
on a nearly pantsless Sunday
you drag bags and boxes
from corners you've never seen
since you were working
during the move.
She painted accent walls
and decorated;
put your books on shelves
though you'd begged her not to
because the order made sense
in your head.

Seven years later
you're bursting through beams
so it's time to purge
the person you evicted.
What you find brings you back
to an era more stable.
You see her hand
in the placement of things
and recall her brain's operation.

Cans of paint and some brushes.
Sheets that don't fit your bed.
A dress that you've never
peeled off her
still hangs from a hook
in the back.
The GPS that you bought her
though without you
she found her way easily.
There's a gray plastic bag
with a knot that's not yours.
You open it, expecting Pandora.
Some makeup, shampoo
a toothbrush, a razor
and a T-shirt
you can't help
but shove to your face.
It smells only now
of cast aside cotton.

Every ounce of your discovery
winds up in the dumpster.
San Francisco's too far
to ship and to handle.