jenny

Who will look at pictures of me when I die
and miss my smell and the weight of my breasts
against his chest, the way I taste after a shower,
my hair wet on his shoulders? Who will look
at pictures of me and know how afraid I lived
each moment not being known, no tenderness
to trust alighting in my heart? Who will touch
my things and remember me? Who will have
pet the depths of my need so lightly to have
released it into living like light on the leaves,
the back yard, the day, gone now, hot, humid,
leaving its wetness to cool, pool, air too thick
to take it back, leaving it to coldness and the dew?