after
after all every time the front door opens i am waiting for your face
and a burst of wind, your chapped hands struggling over blue plastic
grocery bags laden with milk squashing white bread; you always
forgot something. i expect to see you straight through that door
and out of the earth, looking at section b of the copaigue chronicle
slung open on the foyer table, the back page announcing you in loving
memory. [help me with these they’re heavy.] substance. memory. the wind
twists round the celtic cross above the doorway, inri [goddamn it i forgot
the eggs. been busy lately. i’m sorry] so sorry i forgot it, to live.
Emily Waples
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