Sun fades her cracked platters
and chipped tea-cups, a sugar bowl with no lid.
Each time I stop on the way
from the nursing home, I throw out something—
broken chairs, a clock, a tablecloth with holes,
and fill up a black hefty bag, carry it to the curb.
A sketch of her on the wall, next to the mirror—
bit by bit, I’m saying goodbye,
placing her cold cream, eye shadow in a box,
making sure nothing is missing.
Cathy McArthur has had poems published in Lumina, Hanging Loose, Jacket, Gargoyle, Blue Fifth Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and other journals.