Dim the Lights,

or shine the torch, the suitcase is near the door.
It's empty, the contents taken out and destroyed.
I can't explain the dream of lying in the crest of his arms,
how I stayed in this life and died while he snored.
Drool dampened his unshaven chin. I should have wiped
it away. Instead, I waited until the flakes fell in creases
of well worn sheets. They scaled my thighs and bent legs,
a frame for the window of a world we'll deny.
This is nothing like hiding in the impermanence of grief.
2003 Alison Daniel

More Poetry

Orpheus Returns to His Wife
back to contents