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
Maggie Rainey-Smith
First published in the 4th Floor Journal, 2013 http://4thfloorjournal.co.nz/contributors/
