there’s a book that sits on the dining table
trying to catch the unsaid words between tingling
plates and blushes that run up the roots
of what happened last night
& the past week that you weren’t here
so the bed feels colder than the concrete on
our neighbor’s body
& the prayers uttered on it
how my sister stabbed me with
a pair of fabric shears the other night while
we were talking of the moon , bad cigarettes
& other things our hands couldn’t grasp
& the dog left stained patterns of its journey
to the tiny forest near the house with the
white clouds you know? the one you never go to
I think that’s her way of telling us stories
so forgive me for the mess because
stories need to be heard & understood
I forget sometimes to check the mail box &
read your thoughts on a different kind of sky
& how I should do the sane things in life
but at night your voice soaks the sheets
& I remember that we have no dog
& I get lost sometimes looking for sanity’s footsteps
& how my sister left a message to remind me
of the date & that the calendar she
left on the dining table gets dusty trying to
count the days left till I have you again
as I am tired of the rain pelting the roof & the wind
blowing against my mistake of setting the table for two
& three
but mostly
it hurts to remember the pile
of broken white wood along with letters of familial
strange concerns &
one with your name plastered on it
& death as its signature