Her, Rising
Yes, there are the memories
like little phylacteries strapped to our minds, 
and there are the ways we know our dead 
have worked inside us,

when, for example,
I touch up my lipstick in public,
     I, who never drew attention
     to my mouth,
or overpack for a trip,
     I, who never gave weight to choice 
     only to necessity,
or love what she loved —
the beach, the sun —
     I, who seek peace
     in the shadows of mountains and trees.

But what is this deep, gurgling laugh 
from the well of my throat
that is not me
nor her mark?
What is this laugh
if not her, rising in me?

Is this how souls come back to life — 
in our bodies?
And is this how they keep us alive — 
with unexpected shocks
of recognition?