Mothers Song

The mourning after he left
was long and insistent
draping itself over
every load of laundry and
unlaced shoe
surfacing in half-drunk
cups of tepid tea and
resting in uninterrupted ash

Pressing his suit against
forgone conclusion and
long-gone rapture

Finding resonance
in halting conversations
and the late, late show

While she filled
small paper bags with
brown bread sandwiches and
sang secret songs
too high-pitched for
us to know