You are the unnecessary pillow
I cram into a pillowcase.
Who needs four pillows for one head?
You are the head of cauliflower
left too long in the refrigerator.
Eventually it must be let go.
You’re the egg I scramble,
Cracked open, whipped,
Messed around with until you
Coagulate into something else.
You are the song we used to dance to
on the kitchen radio,
the sweet guitar chords, the lyrics
understood only in our secret language,
the ache of you welcomed and unwelcomed back.
You are that damn Christmas tree stand
that won’t allow the tree to rise up straight,
always leaning dangerously,
ready for its calamitous crash.
You are that calamitous crash.
You are the bills that still arrive
with your name on them like a cruel joke,
the invitations to a dead man
for a free seminar
plus a dinner you cannot eat.
You are the dinner ghost
in the empty chair
the junk in the glovebox of our old red car,
the warmth of the extra blanket
I throw over my body
when I go to sleep without you.
You are the sweet tooth that is missing,
the hole in my mouth when I smile.
Nothing is sweet anymore,
not even these substandard cookies
I cram into my mouth, trying to
fill something unfillable.
Mary E. Mitchell, PEN Discovery Award winner, has authored two novels at Saint Martin’s Press. Her essays have appeared in The New York Times and other newspapers and national magazines.
