She's gone.

The Large Saucepan Told Me.

I thoroughed the fridge,
The cupboards, the shelves:
Noting all of the needs
As though we were ourselves.
The routine was the importance
Of that Saturday:
That first time after you'd been no-longer there
The nothing-else-seemed-to-matter day.
The usuals were added
In the order that I would find them
In the supermarket.
The packets in front and the ones behind them
Were accountant accounted for
And penned onto the list
As I drove on
In mine and the kitchen's mist.

The efficient tour of the shop
Allowed no deviation for the eyes
No possibility that your discipline
Would wonder into surprise:
Even without you,
The rules applied;
Nothing halted the march
The fact that you'd died
Changed nothing about the list;
Tattooed and ingrained,
There was no change, there could be no change
To the inbrained.

Unpacking the bags' contents
And precisely placed
Into allotted slots,
They followed the list that could not be defaced
And joined the past and present
Army of obeyors;
Their acceptance of their allotted lot
Sending accepting prayers
To the one
Who's loss
Hadn't ended the position
Of boss.

The first meal that I made
From this single shop
Was twice as much as I needed
And made me stop;
I realised that you would not be joining me
At the table
And that I
Would not be able
To eat yours
As well as mine:
Nothing was right anymore
Nothing fine.

The dustbin ate your share
And, in a different kind of mist,
It was fed a dry dessert:
That shopping list.

13:05, Mon. 18/02/2013.

Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 802 times
Written on 2013-03-29 at 10:55

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text

Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Beautifully written, what truly exemplify loss is so often the ordinary


Rik The PoetBay support member heart!
The use of the often overlooked everyday routines clearly draws the reader right into the melancholy of the moment. The realisation of loss is all the more heartfelt because of it. Very well written.

Commentally Ill
loving memories are worth more than all the gold on the planet, being irreplaceable. you are in possession of what is priceless.

hateful memories, not so much. those are the kinds of losses the saucepan doesn't care about. but, the small teacup told me to fill it with a drink, and so i did.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
The loss is elemental...central to a life. You've dealt with that loss so viscerally. I can feel it in my stomach.

So well written.