Sunday Poem

THE TASTE OF LOSS 

With the first sip of dark espresso
in the morning I think of her
how we would drink it together 

and she said I always took too long
             and let it go cold.
Another winter of her absence 

and spring comes again without her.
A white squirrel chatters on the back porch,
last fall's pumpkin, half-gnawed, frozen there. 

Azure sky above, sunlight on the snow.
From the bare lilac, a cardinal whistles,
             a chickadee dee dees. 

I stay in all this New Year's Eve day,
loss, the mineral salt taste in my mouth.
Turn it into a glass of ice water 

I can down in one drink. I take it
in my hand, bring it to my lips, the smooth glass,
I know that burning cold, I know it.

From The Montreal Book of the Dead (Vallum Chapbook Series, 2014) by Mary di Michele