Absence
Some images imprint
the mind
and stamp the heart, a pair of child's shoes
sprawled on the stairs, their laces loose,
shucked off in a hurry, one on its side.
Or my father's hat still on his car's rear shelf
six months on, its tweedy shape
holding his essence for a second's leap
of hope, then back to the plateau of grief.
A dusty trainer beneath the bed, where
the hoover does not reach, evokes my son
away in his man's world. How they hurt,
these glimpses. As with a sore
tooth, probing, I imagine you too, gone:
those strewn socks, that abandoned shirt.