Blank By George Bilgere

 

When I came to my mother’s house

the day after she had died

it was already a museum of her

unfinished gestures. The mysteries

from the public library, due

in two weeks. The half-eaten square

of lasagna in the fridge.

 

The half-burned wreckage

of her last cigarette,

and one red swallow

of wine in a lipsticked

glass beside her chair.

 

Finally, a blue Bic

on a couple of downs

and acrosses left blank

in the Sunday crossword,

which actually had the audacity

to look a little smug

at having, for once, won.

 

Poem copyright ©2010 by George Bilgere from his most recent book of poems, The White Museum, Autumn House Press, 2010. Reprinted by permission of George Bilgere and the publisher.