and every day after was without
when he died
I knew it was coming.
I could smell death on him:
gunpowder, yellow
sunflower dust.
I had laced closed my body.
I thought it was done.
but the morning was stiff,
and me, in my ignorant loving,
I threw my bike to the lawn.
ran up the humid stairs
of my sweating house.
for one last hour,
nothing yawned.
in the grass outside my window,
oiled insects stirred to life.
I knew it was coming.
I could smell death on him:
gunpowder, yellow
sunflower dust.
I had laced closed my body.
I thought it was done.
but the morning was stiff,
and me, in my ignorant loving,
I threw my bike to the lawn.
ran up the humid stairs
of my sweating house.
for one last hour,
nothing yawned.
in the grass outside my window,
oiled insects stirred to life.
Cameron Gorman is pursuing their MFA at Ohio State University. They are an associate poetry editor for The Journal and also read for New American Press. (Website: https://camerongormanwriter.wordpress.com/)
