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Click the play button below to listen to Matthew Siegel read
“When I Come to Get My Things.”

I am amazed at how much of my shit I left
with her, and to see it piled in her hallway
clears space in me for what?

I wander my new emptiness
as the small bag of her things I’ve brought
weighs down my hand:

purple slippers, black shoes, a gold key,
heavier than my entire imagination.
I should take two trips to move my stuff,

but instead I carry it all at once,
overloading my arms, handles dug
into my shoulders, loudspeaker dragged

behind me like a suitcase, skateboard
tucked into an armpit, and regret wide
as November. Is now when I ask

how one can ever measure anything?
Shirts, socks, underwear, all folded.
The dog’s bowl and food and toys and leash.

Books we shared: The Best We Could Do,
All the Light We Cannot See,
Wildflowers of Northern California.

Mints and twist ties and garden spikes.
A watercolor painting of the dog.
And so much else I’m unable to carry.