Day after
by
Craig Kirchner
When I’m gone,
the Keurig will still pop the
pod,
the mirror will still be you,
you will still wash your hair
and do Wordle.
The sun will break the horizon
and create a spectacular new
day.
The moon will mourn, as will
the ferns
but will become full and bud.
The closet is still my stuff,
the shirts are starched, the
shoes have trees
but you will find things
you didn’t know about.
The books will have a moment
of silence,
but then they will go back to
their job
of adding intelligent ambience
to
what was supposed to be an office.
We will speak, but there will
be no eulogies,
just cremains, and words
in the corners, in the shadows,
whenever you turn around slow.
Plant me with a new tree
as it matures, read to it occasionally,
make sure it understands it will
be nourished
with your ashes when the time
comes.
Craig Kirchner
thinks of poetry
as hobo art, loves storytelling and
the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated
for the Pushcart,
and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After
a writing hiatus he
was recently published in Decadent
Review, Wild
Violet, Last
Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora
Fiction,
Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Yellow Mama, Valiant Scribe and
several dozen other
journals.
