Memorial
I want to build a memorial to you who died in the plague, but I cannot keep a thought in my head and I know nothing about construction.
I decided to make a statue instead, or maybe a painting. I don’t know, there’s so much on the internet.
Each time I put form to it I remember you won’t face dirty dishes again, you won’t stack them satisfyingly clean
You’ll never stroke a cat’s back only to have it rear and scratch you, a red raised rage
You won’t wince across a dirty floor barefoot or ease into damp grass, watchful for slugs
You won’t sink into a salty cheese and pinch your fat or pluck worriedly at your eyebrows
You’ll never pass your fingertips along a man’s bearded jaw or see her nose wince with her glasses into a nervous hooded smile
You’ll not be hobbled by a sudden cramp or grateful for the end of an illness or count down the days to the end of a tedious job
You can’t take a bad picture or madly erase a mistake with the end of a yellow pencil, touch the bits of error up off the sheet
You won’t be flushed with panic at the news or overcome with bile at a terrible smell or bite into something hard that shouldn’t be there
I want to build an edifice to remember you or just a Taj of a fire pit but all I can think of is what you won’t
