SO, YOU'RE GONE
Rain on dog's fur
as he curls against the radiator
is strong in the kitchen
until the peppers begin to
fry in oil.
I bought a loaf of Italian bread,
gave the heel to the dog.
I watch and turn the limp peppers
with a fork,
pick them up one at a time
to lay gently in the bread.
When the sandwich is done
the peppers are lying side by side
like the skins of old frogs.
Now the sandwich is as thick
and long as my forearm.
I bite into it closing my eyes, chewing
on bread and peppers as I listen
to rain overflowing the gutters.
I will forget she was ever here.
I can do this.