Stella Rhame

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE AFTERMATH

The dirty mug I just drank from
will sit in my sink
until I wash it.

My bedsheets will remain
in the same white silhouette
I left this morning.

The window stays open.
I have left it that way
for a sun I will not greet
until tomorrow forgets me.

I am to do nothing.

The bathroom light is still on,
and downstairs I hear my mother calling my name.
I hear my sister playing the song
we used to sing in duet,
and I sit and melt into the floor.

Grief has made a home in my rib cage.
It fills my lungs
and suffocates me
with every breath.

I am gone, and so is my memory.

Drown it in coffee for me,
and leave it in the sink.

By morning
it will look like it was never mine.

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