Monday, January 12, 2015
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.