Death (Emilea Wright)

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.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s