I doubt she'll return
the things she's taken—
a lipstick, tweezers, a necklace.
I'm not too mad, except maybe in the moment—
when I'm in the shower, leg lathered, reach for the razor
I'd left on the lip of the tub.
I might swear when it's not there, wish she'd returned
it. Or had hung up my new sweater slouched on the shelf,
she must have tried it on, left it behind.
I hear the slap of the screen door—
now she's in my car, knows there's gum
in there—it's as if everything I have is hers.
She takes from me, leaves some behind,
the way I'd reach into my father's jar of change—
for quarters, dimes, and nickels, leaving the pennies in a pile.
She'll leave again. All my things back in place.
I'll sit in the evening, dark wine in a glass,
my mother's ring, loose on my finger.