I wash bath mats that held your urine like a flat chalice,
a mistake in cat whispers, so soft human ears can’t hear.
I wait for your ghost, the truth never reveals,
no foggy apparition of love, of message.
Dishes with your food still sit, perfect stones in a special
spot; your lack of appetite came on like a thunderstorm,
and when you couldn’t hold your body up,
I felt Egyptian as you laid down on my legs.
I fell asleep worshipping the dying only to wake
to find you were gone, a blown sun, my lost satellite.
This is Spring. I feel Winter, cold
I can’t shake, a slow rhythm; something keeps
my heart beating.
Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA where she’s a poet, editor, mother and wife. Some of her previous publications include: The Denver Quarterly, Stirring, and Hermeneutic Chaos. She is also the author of What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications, 2014). Her website is sarahlilius.com.