The Cabinet

I opened it for aspirin

and couldn't close the door again.

The bottles crowded the shelf,

all of them mine now,

the labels in my name,

the prescriptions dated

like artifacts,

like they meant something

about who I was supposed to be.

Three kinds of antacid

lined up like a confession,

and behind them,

that lipstick she left—

the color she never wore again,

the brand she can't use here,

the object that belongs

to someone who doesn't.

The old prescription,

doctor's name I don't see anymore,

numbers I can't remember taking,

the refills all gone,

the dates gone cold.

I reached for the aspirin

but stood there instead,

staring at the accumulation,

the layers,

the things that stay

when the people don't,

the specific evidence

that this cabinet belongs

entirely to me now,

that I've been alone

in this space

longer than I thought.

I took two pills without water.