The sun rises
on the third day
(no one sees it, despite the insistent
pounding of rays
on the shutters)
of sitting shiva in the same clothes
on the same pillows.
We don't mention the state
of Mothers makeup,
and make sure the mirrors stay covered.
The kitchen is full
the smell of cooking stops
whetting appetites
and now nauseates,
still the neighbors cook.
On the dining table
from our hands and laps
the plates and dishes and drinks
and trash
gather and grow and pile,
building feet and legs,
the androgyny of a torso
built from casseroles,
arms of muffin bits,
neck of tea spiked
with some snuck liquor,
the head--photo albums,
baby books barely filled
with some life hardly lived.
The neighbors see it,
hope we haven't,
and slowly clear the table.















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