THE SLIPPING OF AIR

AMANDA SCHARF

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I think of the day you will die
and in thinking
I must somehow continue
to parcel out coffee grinds
for the morning after,
set the laundry, replace
what has been used and finished
Fill time that I might
have once saved for you

Our lives together hollowed
me in knowing
The cementing of comprehension
that we would someday
live lives apart
How gutted to feel the slipping
of air, remnants of time
The matter surrounding space
of figure


Holding soiled water of rotting flowers
Petals and pollen that had filled vases
on tables
Brown water and slippery stems
Such small deaths
break my heart over and over
The same reason I fear
having a goldfish