My husband has been dead
for a year and almost ten months
as I sift slowly through
his belongings
They are mine to sort, now
I find the love letters
his first wife wrote him
and some notes he wrote her
They sear my hands and
I drop them

I set them aside, for awhile
And then I gather them
up, and wrap them in
cellophane
They’re safe this way
They sit for a long time

My husband has been dead
for two years, nine months, and two days
the day I carry these notes
in my car
to his ex-wife
and I float above them,
apart from them
They are not mine to carry,
any longer
They never were —
but I am a caretaker,
and I do take care
of those I love.