What I Brought Out With Me

A small manila envelope of letters.
The one mug they let me keep — chipped on the rim.
A list of names, in pencil,
of men I told myself I would write to.
The names are still there.
I have written to four.

A way of standing at a doorway —
left foot back, weight slightly forward,
ready to be counted.
I do this in coffee shops now.

A book I started in Monroe and finished
in the apartment my parents rented.
My handwriting in the margins
of the first half. My handwriting,
slightly different, in the second.

Both are mine.