The adrenaline’s gone and the house is too still

The adrenaline’s gone and the house is too still,

leaving me here with a hollow to fill.

I’m standing at the sink in the middle of May,

scrubbing the grease of the grieving away.

There’s a ghost of a casserole, onions and salt,

stuck to the plastic like it’s all my own fault.

I rinse out the cold and I dry out the bowl,

acting like chores can make a person feel whole.

In the mudroom, my heels are still damp from the rain,

resting on newsprint to soak up the stain.

The world is just dishes and shoes on the floor,

while I wait for a knock that won’t come to the door.