Photo by Martino Pietropoli via Unsplash
My house grows small
waiting for her to leave.
Today I opened the door
to the cellar and it wasn’t there.
I climbed the staircase to the attic—
it ended in a dead wall.
The bathroom I’ve been so proud of shrank
to the size of a restroom stall.
I dare not enter the kitchen.
The walls crowd around me, the windows
close to slits, like cat’s eyes.
And here she is, on my bed,
showing me medals from wars
she never fought.
Her hand bends the page of my book;
her head leaves a crease on my pillow.
Somehow, she ended up wearing
my robe, too. She even wears her hair
the way I do.
Tomorrow I might wake up
and find myself in a coffin
with her as my only companion.
I know when I have to go.
First published in Open Minds Quarterly, Summer 2018
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