PAPERS

She’s gone. Like sundown. For years I chase shadows,

glow of a promise on the horizon.

It’s never really dark. I never really see.

All the food in the house begins to spoil,

the canned goods to swell, the refrigerator

can’t be opened for the reek. I toil

in the garden, pull up pea plants and tomato vines,

leave nothing but weeds. Our puppies grow old, ache

and lumber to their feet. I’m left to ponder

their quality of life, my own, alone.

Love dances about like their fur along the baseboards

after I vacuum, all that’s left what can’t be reached.

I strip paint off the walls and deconstruct the shelves,

burn the books in a bonfire no one attends.

The clothes and portraits, furniture and papers.

I tend and stoke the flames like children,

tickle their little feet until they shriek.

They’ve got my face and name, someone else’s eyes.

I draft a will and name them heirs, the vast

fortunes of my heart their inheritance.

They’ll weep and they’ll feast with the mourners.

They’ll wail and gnash a little, play at sackcloth and ash.

They’ll protest and demure, say it’s much too soon,

but they’ll reach out with their flickering fingers

and take it all, carry it to their bright homes

and hold it close until nothing remains.

Marvin Shackelford is author of Endless Building (poems), Tall Tales from the Ladies' Auxiliary (stories, soon), and Field Guide to Lonely Birds (flash, later). He resides in Southern Middle Tennessee, earning a living in agriculture.