Interior

My dear, I washed you out of my sheets.
And now I sleep softly in them.
My dreams are sweet and free.

I opened the windows to air out
your smoke. I liked it for a while, how
it held the past in its wispy fingers.

I emptied your cigarette butts
from my ashtray. The Cuban one, heavy.
Remember? It waited a half-life for you.

I scoured your dense coffee
from my cups. You broke one. Elegant,
with painted roses. It doesn’t matter.

I threw away your shoes. Every time,
you left a pair behind, like two footprints
in ancient rocks.

I put back the furniture you’d rearranged,
restored my writing corner. Low sun
streams in, now we’re past the Equinox.

And still, my love, our dead skin cells
persist. We mingle in the house-dust,
dancing in the slow winter sunlight.

Bel Wallace‘s poetry has been short-listed for the Bridport Prize, nominated for the Pushcart and published in a range of journals, most recently Anthropocene, Magma and Under the Radar. She’s trying to finish her first novel, but keeps getting distracted by poetry.