you'd go to get something and come back and he'd be gone

When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived 

their usefulness and cannot get warm and full. 

You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back 

 

as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket 

and had that beautiful smile on and you'd talk. 

You'd go to get something and come back and he'd be gone. 

 

You explain death to the clothes like that dream. 

You tell them how much you miss the spouse 

and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater. 

 

You tell the worn raincoat that if you talk about it, 

you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words 

for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out 

 

and fought to the last breath. Words have that kind of power 

you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornly 

folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs, 

 

Or hanging inside the dark closet. Do with us what you will, 

they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them. 

He is gone and no one can tell us where. 

 

[Emily Fragos, 'The Sadness of Clothes', from The Best American Poetry 2016]