Dogs dead for nineteen
years guard our email; wrought
iron gates of husbands
and wives and children swing
open to reveal the balance
in the checking account to you only,
once you’ve spoken of them.
Numbers figure in, too. Birthdays
climb onto mothers’
maiden names, signifiers for athletes
follow types of instruments
we adore but have never mastered.
Our passwords mine
the memory, scanning for entities
that affect us so intensely
we wish to write their names again
and again. We call on them
for protection and write them back
into the terrestrial script
of currency and correspondence.