Sunday Bloody Sunday
(Bacilli, to B.)

Yes, it will be exactly like this when you're gone — quiet, quiet, quiet:
the padding about, room to room, that gets worse
in the afternoon: the stop-offs
to deadhead inarticulate friends in their pots outside
the particular chill of this house where you're prone & depositing
your viscera into makeshift containers I rush forth with,
murmuring anodynes, holding my nose & wondering
how it all came about though that's jejune enough:
                                                                            elderly mushrooms
semi-disguised, I can never seem to toss, such a dab hand
at recycling, realigning, the entire julienne of the thing: re-presenting
as if we lived in huts on nuts & berries found (& gently stewed of course);
the slightest hint of maybe mint (tumeric?); for miles around they applaud
my Gallicity: what housewifery; but it is really this horrible fear
the Day will draw near: it will all disappear, we'll be famished & alone.
But you'll recover, Love. You always have. It will all go on & on & on

Copyright © 2006 Susanne Kort All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission