On grief

My pen stalls out
Words whimpering into a black line
Trailing across the page.

The coffee, remembered,
(Perhaps a distraction)
My mouth finds lukewarm.

Still, the brown liquid proves
A fitting graveyard for butts
Soggy, stinking.

Your rose amber woman
Sits at the end of my bed.
No combination of steel chisel’s wedge
And obdurate stone would transform
Into explicit, liquid curves
Except by the agency of your hands,
Implied by every smoothness.

Last week I found her head broken off.
It lies now beside her, forehead
On a level with thighs.

One woolen sock of yours
Remains in my dresser drawer.
This useless single of a pair you loved
Summer and winter.
I can’t bear to throw it away.

My eyes whip away, obedient.
Not lingering on page, figure, sock.
Inarticulate fear, superstition guide me.
If I do not mourn, you will not leave.