After the funeral

We rushed to your apartment
both of us
brother and sister
born from your cells
your absence burning our skin

we tossed tuna cans stale baguettes soup mixes
without thinking
trashed metro stubs travel guides unopened medical bills
without pausing
packed pants shirts tie-pins into cartons
without looking

a sign at your door read
‘moving out free stuff’
people came in packs
probed pulled picked
one man with a ‘Go Redskins’ cap
toyed with your small ivory comb
the one you kept in your car
fixed your hair with
humming a jazz tune
laughter in your eyes

we kept our heads down
trying not to remember
trying not to cry

after everybody was gone
one carton remained
empty wide-open
a womb
we climbed into it
pulled the top down tight
snuggled into one ball of agony
closed our eyes
wishing that when
we opened them
you’d be here

A former writer for children’s magazines and travel publications, Brigitte Aflalo-Calderon recently discovered the art of poetry, which has become all-consuming. A yoga instructor and artist, Brigitte was born and raised in Morocco. She now divides her time between her homes in Nîmes, France, and Princeton, NJ.

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1 Response to After the funeral

  1. Pingback: Next Act for Women Becoming an Abstract Painter at 60: Brigitte’s Story - Next Act for Women

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