by Wanda Brayton

Created on: November 11, 2009

The Mourning After

(inspired by Anne Sexton's poem "The Inventory of Goodbye")

My flesh peeled by grief,

I ached pale bones until the moon went out,

and did not return,

did not even leave the keys on the empty-drawered dresser.

You were gone, gone, gone

long before you actually left,

casually crawling into that horrid plain box

they planted you in,

no sun to bronze you anymore,

no stone to mark your absence.

They moved what was left of me into a small room

where you could not fit,

no matter how I tried to slide you in

as a stolen memory, barricaded from view.

You were unceremoniously evicted

from your rightful place in my heart

and it was too broken and I was too lost to find you.

They tore up the only map I had.

They fed me lies with every meal

and I swallowed them whole,

thinking it was sustenance instead of the poisoned apples

they grew in the backyard especially for me.

They shredded your canvases and sold the frames

so I could not speak of how bright your colors once were.

They gave me a box of crayons, all gray,

and told me to draw what I could recall.

The page was blank on purpose.

I refused to elaborate on anything they only wanted to burn.

I kept my sorrow deep and hid the shovels

from their greedy, grasping fingers

so I would one day remember to forget

we never said goodbye.

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