I still think of you, even in Asheville, the umber hips

of the mountains cresting the sky like rising planets, 

as I cross the Publix parking lot, in this town so quiet 

I can hear the frost on the grass, crackling beneath my sneakers,

the hum of the engines, the exhaust that swirls into the sky 

like a ghost. I wonder if I could forget you here,

where the pine trees border the skyline like bishops, 

whether I could forget the version of myself on the toilet,

in Florida, vomiting into the bathtub epithelial chunks 

like organ lining, heaving up misoprostol pills and oxycodone, 

swirling the drain like a nebula. I never got to name you,

but as I get back in the car, weaving down narrow roads 

dusted in orange, with names like Haywood and

Clover, I imagine you as belonging to nature, 

as though you could rise from the embankments 

of silver leaves on the roadside. I envision buckling you in 

to your booster seat, you would be five now, 

with sneakers that dangle above the floorboards 

of the rental car, chubby cuffs of wrists 

as you point out the skeletal arms of the trees

stabbing the air like spines. Driving through this town 

that rests in the mountains as though carved into a bowl,

I realize that I carry you with me, even here, 

as the landscape sweeps upward into mountains,

thickets of barren trees growing dense, hundreds of branches

stripped like nerve endings, the forest floor matted 

with layers of shriveled leaves, eggshells, decomposition,

where I imagine I could lay, and hear your voice.