A dawn alarm. Alone. Our bed, still, half
Empty. Still stiff. Limp clock glow still totting
The moments. Your ghost, a metronome of
My missing, my stroking, my forgetting.
Memory, lotion smooth, curdles the cold
Skin of your hollow. The cool sheet furrows.
Worms erupt, seethe, over your sagging folds,
Burrow neat holes through the shroud of my sorrow.
Mid-morning alarm at finding myself
In the kitchen. Your hand, in chalk, “Bin Day”,
Remains, lined in dust, scrawled on the blackboard.
My hands, nails two weeks untrimmed, search the shelves;
Tea bags, tuna, tinned peaches, tossed away,
Contents strewn in bin bags across the floor.
Do this all the time.
ReplyDelete"My hands, nails two weeks untrimmed, search the shelves;
Tea bags, tuna, tinned peaches, tossed away,
Contents strewn in bin bags across the floor."
If I may add:
Dirty rags, unwashed dishes, brown stove
Crumbs splattered around the pan