Come home to find the front door mid-sigh,
the kitchen still dizzy
with aftershave. Stale oatmeal paint,
Throw his name to the walls.
Run through the house knuckling windows, sing
the hammer into the peach tree,
the sauce pan,
anything but the stillness that pools
blue in the mirror.
His coffee mug
with two deaf handles.
Wait even while deciding you will not
wait for him
Let your hair be eighteen violin strings
unbled by nails and sunrise
caught in your teeth.
Count ways to wake up
without him, your ribcage
threaded by clock hands. Lick the hinges
to silence. Wait. On the porch
wait for the night
unsweetened and coarsely ground.