Estrangement

unspoken over the skin of last words,

caressing each longing.

Estrangement now penal,

a solemnity unable to be fulfilled.

To take her in my arms

as yesterday,

I clutched the old broom

about ready to be retired.

To give thanks

for all the messes it’s edged

into the pan,

the estrangements,

dust of the unspoken

it’s coaxed over the lip,

only to leave its faint lines.

Before long I’m thinking of its

bristles, what they’re actually made of

while her last coughs,

polite,

unproductive,

wait for me in expectation,

and her breathing, touched, it seems,

by the same instinct to sweep, to clean house,

surrenders its last—not into the pan itself,

only as that line,

gasp-grey and faint.

Who knows where it will end up?

Not even the old dear broom can touch it.