I reached for a pen in the back of the drawer

I reached for a pen in the back of the drawer

and hit the wood of the things she made.

They’ve been sitting here since the divorce,

silent and thick in the shade.

Hand-carved coasters with uneven edges

that wobbled whenever I set down a glass.

I told her they were perfect for the ledges,

watching the long, slow afternoons pass.

There’s a sticky ring of coffee on the grain

from a morning I couldn't be kind.

I keep them around like a dull sort of pain

for the sister I left far behind.