Down from Bob Ovitt’s place, two sisters linger
at their clothesline to watch as the farmer’s two hundred
eighty-pound body is hoisted into a flatbed and then
driven in a scrawl of dust around the bend. These
sisters, legendary for their efficiency, are later asked
by the town-clerk to sort through their neighbor’s papers,
a task each accomplished after their husbands died—one
from a tractor spill, the other from a virus. For years
they’ve lived together in a harmony of thought. October
both amble up to Ovitt’s farmhouse to sort
his papers. Etta, the eldest, shoulders open
the door. They look around before attacking mounds
of mail on the cider-ringed table. Outside,
winds churn poplar leaves, causing Etta
to ponder their sixty-two-year-old neighbor, who lay
dead days before anyone suspected. She’s more
attuned to the quirks of fate and visualizes Bob gagging
on a chicken bone, his ruddy hands hacking at his throat
to dislodge the shard. She wonders if the draft
around her shoulders is his rank
breath: if the dead, out of longing, draw close, waiting
for someone to tug them back. Her sister extracts
from an envelope, a letter Bob wrote but didn’t mail, and reads it
aloud: Chopped down trees in the north pasture to increase
my view of your place. Still, no word from you. Etta covers
her mouth and indicates No More. She’s not
mentioned Bob’s indiscretion, how
he cupped her buttocks when she carried up his supper.