Death (Emilea Wright)



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.



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