After the Funeral
by John Wood


She hangs her coat by his,

(The hall tree is overburdened),

hides his tired boots in a spare closet,

(They can still call me Mrs. Rogers),

broods over lukewarm tea.

She removes a sterling band to clean up.

A wasted kettle hisses into the sink.

Plates clatter, spoons tine, a faucet sobs.

A drawer is opened and inside she finds

a faded love note.

Her brow furrows and a vacant pair of sockets

reflect in the countertop.

Her gaze rises to the window.

The eye burns on the horizon

and light sifting through the branches of an evergreen

reveals a frail brown skeleton.

No more kisses on the neck.

No more love notes. Barren.

(I will die in a rocking chair).


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