The Drawer That Sticks

The Drawer That Sticks

My father's jumper still holds the shape

of arguments we never finished,

its wool fibres knotted tight

like a child's stubborn shoelaces

refusing to come undone.

 

I find his spare glasses

 

wearing dust like tiny monocles,

their lenses clouded with the breath

of words he meant to say

but swallowed instead.

 

The kitchen drawer where we kept batteries

now collects the static

of all our almost moments,

each dead cell holding

the last voltage of your laugh

when you thought I wasn't listening.

 

His coffee cup clings clean and empty,

a porcelain question mark

 

waiting 

 

for an answer

that tastes like forgiveness.

Reviews

[Kelly Scheppers]

Now, this is my kind of writing! I love the sorted details, right down to the drawer that sticks as a title, snaring my attention to take a further look. Each stanza had me holding on like a trapeze artist, anxious to grab the following line. What an ending! It needs nothing more, other than perhaps, applause!