Afire burned smouldering embers
Of lost amour; your sweet whispers
As you placed dead things at my door
Like the mouse my cat left so
Lovingly in the old shoe on my porch.
I felt guilty.
I thought I should put it in a jar.
That’s what one is supposed to do with
Those blossoms that once dripped dew
And offered their beauty to
The morning light.
Now severed and decaying on my stoop
Because you thought me pretty.
I waited until you left before
I cremated them.
The embers glowed greedily for
I wiped off the rot from their stems residing
On the tips of my fingers.
At least it wasn’t a mouse.
Perhaps the next one will bring me