Summer 2014: Poetry
Relic
by Jennifer Foreman
Your paint-stained hoodie still hangs in our closet your ashes rest on the shrine of your nightstand locals come by asking to hold your asthma inhalers cats sleep on your pillow next to my head bread crusts from your last sandwich are under a glass dome beer you were drinking when you died is in the fridge some spilled on the bottom shelf and I refuse to clean it up ever I won’t wash your dirty socks I pray to your old hair ties twisting the knotted hair strands with my thumb and index finger chanting your nicknames speaking in tongues when I think of the life we had sweet saint of the working class carpenter big lug gentle giant I pour whiskey on the ground and whisper your full name 27 times Thomas Michael Palmer Thomas Michael Palmer Thomas Michael Palmer I pace the floor waiting for you to come back dress like you for Halloween throw my hands up begging you to be my savior deliver me from the absence of you your nail clippings have been fashioned into a mobile that hangs over my bed I sleep in your underwear and large torn tee shirts holding your truck keys wake up to the sound of your voice someday a stranger will find your sketch pad and declare you a prophet our apartment has become a stupa.
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