Most mornings my back aches as I bend
to look for the jigsaw puzzle pieces

fallen under your chair. I might find
fragments of blue birds or their nests.

One piece I remember well: a shard
of Wedgewood that I pocketed at your

apartment before we were married.
For weeks that winter you had pieced

together exquisite museum china,
your fingers sorting the edges,

chestnut brown hair hanging over the table.
One night you showed me how you

solved the puzzle except for one piece.
You’d looked everywhere. It was gone.

You were upset. You didn’t believe me
when I said together we could do anything.