Mourners who tasted her grace
leave with a dry mouth and no words.
You are stuck with a house
of banging doors she once
pushed shut without a single sound.
The bed grows large as you grow small.
Her slippers, little Eden fish
swimming in the black bowl
of a night the sun refuses to shave.
Her garden is bearded in weeds;
it's time you bent to sort
the color from the dust.
Your spine like all the winter trees
now tired, tested paperclips.
Most minutes seem a kitchen sponge
begging to be pitched.
Each step is a war. Your chest,
still as the languishing stone.
She left stray hairs embedded
on the beige divan,
then one or two on bars of soap
you cannot bear to toss.
Her knitting needles talk to you.
Click and stab in memory.
Joy, a withered pea to chase.
When death arrives, we're all
cold pilgrims in mothy wool
grabbing for another layer
as hangers swing like skeletons.
The brandy bowl --
that chariot you counted on --
has no wheels to carry off
the weight of losing all this light.