The current ghost
broom clean
the measure of absence
in the mud room no mud
scuffed baseboards
rusted sinks
house we have worn you out
mother locks the last door
her voice trails off in traffic
formless
he drifts down the stairs
settles in the cellar
around the water heater’s
last warmth
the pipes sigh
Last note
you’re in the pewter streaked with age
in the cabinet in a bag of rice
you’re the warp in the big pine table
the crack in the parquet floor
you’re the smear of sap on the skylight
you hide in the ivy’s ribs
you’re the shimmer on the phone wires
you’re the crow and the hawk
you whistle down the chimney
you spill out of my gutters
you skate the double yellow stripe
down the length of this road
you can’t be unmade
you can’t be erased
I can’t unlove you
Marilyn A. Johnson’s poems have appeared recently in Pedestal, Plume, RHINO, and the Provincetown Independent. She lives in Sleepy Hollow, N.Y.
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