Jennifer L. Freed
Orpheus, Not Looking

He lets her purple sweater rest
on her wing-back chair. It is there
beneath his fingers
each time he passes by.
On the bureau, her little jars
and bottles, their scent
a whisper of her near.
By the back door, her garden
gloves, her rubber boots.
As long as he does not look
for her, he can let himself believe
she’s only busied for a while
by some small chore.
Soon, she’ll follow him out
into the sunlit yard
to sit beside him with her cup of tea,
listening for the mourning dove,
the meadowlark, the chickadee.