Marsha

We won’t lie, taking care of you like this

has come at an inconvenient time.

The dog-walkers in the neighborhood gawk at us

sitting on our porch talking about learning French

until someone whispers, they always do

“How has Marsha been?”

I’ve seen Amie in the mornings

in the pink velvet wingback chair — perched

trying to shake the sorrow out of her long hair.

She carries it to sleep with her every night,

hangs your heaviness on the post of her bed.

I stand at the coffee table and serve you

leftover sushi and omelettes and hope

that something fills the hole inside you.

This is the only way

I know how to take care of those I love.

There is ashen sage on top of Ellie’s cabinet.

I count the empty wine bottles when I take out the garbage

recite the labels aloud like a litany.

We are all performing

the exorcisms the best we can.