by Samuel Ugbechie
You’re stiff, standing like a stick, next to the kitchen
sink, which tonight could be a dream,
or mirror, a quilted scene on which you hope her face
appears, like a wing of vapor condensed, a sniff
of her gown, the feel of gasping water on the attic
of your throat. There lies the stove-burnt cook
-ware moving without her hands, there lies the coffee
mug without her stained lips, the kettle cuddled
by its smoke, enthralled by its sweetened mist,
thrummed by its fluid the temperament of honey,
still without her nose, or her grip or hold, or the music
of her toes. Still without her breath piping down the fire. Beside you, moonlight smears the flock of windows;
you stare at the odd pose of the cutleries, each a lit punctuation, each the stance of a rusted question
mark asking the same question. Why don’t our loved
ones say goodbye? Why, tonight, does the world clang
like an empty room, as though every voice in it
were hushed, as though every motion in it were stilled,
as though every being, like hers, were gone?
Why is loneliness a sharp slither of worms
in your blood? Why is your voice a night
-hurled grieving echo? You long and weep and shrink
into the knuckle of a scent, as the night thickens
into your eyes, hardens into your skin, saucepans,
spatula, woks, each a weeping percussion, a moon
-fingered choir, none as tuneful as her hum, as mellifluous
as her breath; memories drag you by the hem,
into the bare room, as you fit your being
into the gown of sleep, pillowing sharp like grief,
with her name sculpting off-white balls of snores
like bereft snows falling off your tongue.
Samuel Ugbechie’s writing has appeared in The Sentinel, Elsewhere Lit, Nottingham Review, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere, and his work has been recognized by awards including the Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize, Troubadour International Poetry Prize, Fish Poetry Prize, and the Frederick Holland Poetry Collection Award.