I want to tell You I am sorry
On Your last Sunday,
You chopped onions carrots celery enough
To last and
Hung a shelf in the bathroom and
Replaced hooks in the kitchen that we’d been making do
I was supposed to be the one who made Plans and
wiped clean the Slate of
last week’s livings
Your materials and my machinations made a mundane magic
Out of living
I wasn’t prepared for no more Sundays, and the vegetables,
they went rotten in the fridge.
I looked at them for days, gutted, begging them to give me
One. Last. Chance.
to be saved.
Such awesome lines in this, my fave:
“Every Sunday / Your materials and my machinations made a mundane magic /Out of living.” Feel like I’m getting to know him this month.
That’s the best compliment you could give me. My goal since he died suddenly in October has been to make sure that people know him as well as possible. He was a unique and wonderful light in this world, and that we only had him on this plane for 43 years is unfathomable.
I have so much I want to say here because this poem speaks the language of grief, but the significance of chopped and rotten vegetables is especially moving. “Gutted.”
I agree with Bill. I have gotten to know you and him this month. Your poetry is so dynamic, and as Sue said, you write in the language of grief. We can all relate to that emotion.
love this ending