Unwriting You
Jeanann Verlee

Your stitches
loosen and your face
unravels and your
lips fall to the tiles
and your tongue
dries to dust and your
fingers unhinge and
your chest sinks
and your mother
forgets you and your
lover takes a new
name and your desk
is given to your
assistant and your
niece asks where
you’ve gone and
subway doors close
on your ghost
shoulders and dogs
pee on your ankles
and your last meal
remains on the plate
and your wine glass
sits full and your
napkin folded and
your best friend never
calls again and your
subscriptions expire
and the letters you
wrote combust
on my shelf and the
photos of us melt
into small puddles
along the baseboard
and your closetful
of good shoes go
stiff and your father
remembers you by
a different name
and the children
we never had stop
whispering I love
you in my ear.

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