ROOMS

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.