Inventory of
What Remains
Ruth Awad
The unmade bed,
sheets coiled
like the end of a rope.
Lip-print sealing
the rim of the glass
you last sipped.
68
The door sighing
open when the furnace
thrums.
Robins like a heartbeat
behind the shrub.
My hands tracing
slats of sunlight,
their impartial divide:
mine, yours.
I know at least
what love feels like,
don’t tell me I don’t.