The front door swings closed
like thousands of doors,
and here is the lock that kicks the house to sleep.
This is my crumby stove, my old chair.
My ice hissing in what’s left of your drink.
Here: spot rot on the 40-watt
bulb where insects scraped a filigree.
My eyeball burps a blue sink and spoons sunk
in their cold suds
your absence is speaking
in the hush of things that have needed
a good cleaning.
The dinner table begs a word.
The bathroom begs a word.
The television begs
my half-open legs and this couch
can’t recall your weight.
These cupboards won’t feed you.
In the kitchen I’m cutting pale fruit
off the lean skin of a plum
and the view from this window
is a bowl I mean
to eat from.