By the yellow gingham chair

 

there’s an apple core going brown

by the books beside the empty glass

of red wine, sediment like blood spilled

 

near your empty chair where you

sat last evening reading and the sun

is a white line on the windowsill

 

so still, the bookshelves, our photos

deceased brother, father, mother,

sister still alive, enshrined, framed

 

the box of ashes we separated

to pretend half of your brother

was the cat we didn’t collect

 

from the vet for our grandchild.

Will we tell her, one day, that

box contains her great uncle

 

how we split his ashes in half

sealed both boxes and now

he’s in two rooms at one time

 

if asked to could we name

our sorrows guess their weight

truly know their shape?

 

the unlit lamp leans towards

the yellow gingham chair  while

you’re not there – keeping score

 

 

 

Contents | Previous Author | Next Author | About this Author