The Weaning

He is aware
of absence
through intangibles.
The patio lacks
the smell of her cigarette,
no perfume lingering at her dressing table.
In the refrigerator,
bleak yawning shelves hold
no fresh greens, no yogurt.
A moldering army of take out containers
march across the glass racks.

Her nail polish
in the bathroom cabinet,
shades of pink and red.
He opens one, memories stagger him,
grabs the vanity for balance
dripping blood red on the white porcelain sink.

Dreaming on the sofa,
the cool of her hand caressing his forehead,
brushing back his hair.
Awakes to darkness and cold hard rain.
He sleeps with her clothing,
a different piece each night,
arms wrapped round her sweaters,
weaning himself,
as her fragrance
slowly fades
away.

Mary Ellen Seidel

Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002