I could not name it, a feeling
like a sloshed mother & spoiled
birthday party in a mixing bowl

with rust & gravel. It lived behind
the pale blue Goodwill
sheets draped over my back

bedroom window. I tried
to find it, an inkling, hunch,
slight premonition. It hurt like

a woodpecker beak splintered
behind my ribs but was tinged
with complexity, had a good-

bad twist considering I also
felt hope. It’s not because I’m
not used to it; I collect losses

like pennies in a cigar
box but this was like a train
rolling toward me. No words

for it, when I found out Zoey
died it hit me hard. Not
sweet Zoey, barely 30,

& the last person you’d
expect to leave. I couldn’t
find the words for such sudden

devastation & I was left
with brief gusts of her — long
hippie hair, light blonde & down

to her waist. The way her mom,
when she was a baby, tucked her
inside a rolling tentlike contraption

that hooked up to her bike & she
pedaled them together, chains singing,
to the only laundromat in town.