I don't own an exquisite way to move around in the night
                            —Doug Benezra

It occurs to me that,
when I die,
they might find the necklace
I dropped behind the bed
and wonder
how long it was there,
and whether I’d missed it.
But will they care
about my favorite color,
my long-range plans,
or my habit of searching myself
for signs of rust?

More Poems by Dorothea Grossman