The pile of April’s belongings spill over the countertop,
mixing with all of our new purchases.
She bought normal goods, like
dish soap, a vacuum, hangers.
She brought normal possessions, like
towels, a notebook, rain boots.
When we recycled the boxes from move-in
and the dishes began to pile up next to the sink,
our belongings lined up in their places.
Her purse was flung on her desk, just like mine
and our iPods were both connected to our computers.
Her calculator was on the table and mine on the couch.
We had our cameras out to document
as we arranged our boots in our closet
and our clothes in our drawers
and even the cleaners under the sink.
Everything now is orderly and in their places,
except for a something, a strange thing.
Every single one of April’s possessions