Death
It’s the empty space we mourn:
The impression, the imprint.
Not a thick body folded
Into a black box
Or white dust sprinkled
Among butterflies or waves.
It’s where her breathing use to slow
On the left side
of the bed. Or perhaps,
how the phone doesn’t ring at five.
It’s not having warm, soft pancakes
On the table Saturday morning.
The death of plans, dates, reminders
is what we feel is gone,
Not skin or kidneys. We feel the absence
Of the cranberry salad at Thanksgiving,
Or the empty reserved table:
Two chairs staring at each other,
The cushions curved and cold,
Menus untouched.
