You’re there when I’m cooking dinner;
there − but not − a vacuum the size of a man.
Chopping vegetables, your cologne,
scent of musk − of man − overpowers
Stirring stew at the stove,
the scuff of an invisible boot − from behind,
or flutter of touch − on grieving shoulders;
A table for two − only one,
congealing food on a plate,
opposite − the chair scrapes − lightly
across porcelain tile,
a shadow moves away.
one cup − one plate,
reflections of yesterday − smiling,
trapped in steamy glass;
until, tears falling
I wipe it away.
Brigette Yanes is a non-traditional senior double majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing at Loras College in Dubuque, Iowa. She has been published in The Lettered Olive, Up the Staircase, and the Dubuque Area Writer’s Guild Anthology Midscapes. She is also the editor-in-chief of the inaugural edition of Catfish Creek an undergraduate literature journal produced by Loras College.
© 2011, Brigette Yanes