Monday, January 12, 2015

Sarah Giragosian: Leftover

I have un-marbled your lunch pail
of its patina of jelly, its bloom of mold.
What to do now but finger the clasp, locked like a jaw?

Each little elegy I write
steers me farther from you, and still there’s this groping
for form. I find the dusky petals of your fingers

on the window glass and the walls;
you are whorled along the blurred rim of my vision.
I don’t write about heaven, just the oculus-moon,

the opening I see from below,
while I assign structure to this grief. I’ll keep you
in shoe boxes, albums, drawers: you’ll have to be dug out.

I thumb the unmiraculous
detritus of your life. All’s qualified and blessed—
all the echoes and distillations of you: plastics

and boxers, the grimed towels strewn
and eddying around the door, the dandruff pearled

on the dresser, the sweat line plumbed down the threadbare shirt.

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