Saint Therese Expires
St. Therese knows the time is near.
She hears my half-flung prayer for you
as you leave for the day. The house
feels worried, cabinets quivering and faucets wailing.
I sit at the kitchen table and open my palm
where I keep my pieces of you --
your mother's pearls, your sister's smile,
and the curve of your jaw in the dark.
St. Therese reaches one hand to me
and we meet as absent sisters.
Our joined hands become an open coffin
and St. Therese expires
as steam on a winter night.
Suddenly alone at our table, I sprout leaves
among our dirty dishes and you
stride back through the empty doorway.
We kneel before the bed
and three sets of lips move in unison.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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