There is a shrouded space beside me
That people leave free; grief’s easier in Emily Dickinson,
Short lines and distance. This space
Is wheelchair shaped and I keep checking it
In case your ghost is hungry.
Another mouthful? No resistance,
When spoon meets empty air. As always you’re
Silent as the grave, though now and then I catch
The random shimmer of your sounds.
The words I used to speak for you
Lie crumbling at the bottom of my bag,
Not thrown out, still powdering everything. How’s
The best girl in the world?
Not in the world, I think, remembering
That Portuguese prince who travelled with his dead lnfanta
Propping her beside him
On foreign thrones. How weird
The guidebook said, but I am not so sure…
Forgetting is weirder.