by Ellen Metrick
This is the fear; sit with him,
Here. Nothing you must do, you say
Again, to yourself. Nothing. Simple,
But here you go, up and dusting,
Arranging knick-knacks above
This too-narrow bed while he
Stands there, just inside the door
He’s closed behind him, hat in hand.
You suspect he could wait all day.
He would, while you could
Take a toothbrush, a lifetime
To clean this tiny apartment.
There is something he wants you to do.
That‘s what he said last time you met,
When he held your face in his hands
Like a father. You remember that fierce
Tenderness like lightning and rain.
Your vision blurs, you grip the gathered
Feathers, continue dusting, while your heart
Turns towards the door without you.