I sort through left-behind
Boxes that keep
A muddled heap
Of women’s work. I find
Wool squares she used to knit
While I sat opposite.
“Leftover life to kill,”
Young Caitlin said
With Dylan dead,
Yet lived with an ill will
Forty posthumous years
Of rage, fucking, and tears.
At seventy I taste
In solitude
Starvation’s food,
As the land goes to waste
Where her death overthrew
A government of two.