7 Days Later
I wore your clothes for the rest of the week,
even your baggy floral underwear.
I wore your bathrobe, hoping to be clean,
I licked the dirt of all the silverware.
I looked at every possibility
so stop the condolence calls and free meals.
I spoke in sounds, howls, and hostility.
So I ate cherry steams and lemon peels,
quit reading, locked every door behind me.
Slowly, I untied my shoes, not sure yet what to do. Now I spend nights quietly
trying to not remember or forget.
How long can a child be a child without her mother to guide her?