Anna Melnikova, Memories of Lost Love 3
Remains
Pamela Richardson
Long after I’m gone, my hair will lie
in a small box, a lock kept from the first
time I cut my bangs like a key biting,
a mountain range too high across my forehead.
It will remain in splintered wood in the
forest from a fort long forgotten, only three
boards hang from rusty nails and pine trees.
It will cling to the hem of my wedding dress
that hangs in the back of the closet
with a stain from the red wine I spilled
when we danced. It will wrap itself around
the slimy bolt in the shower drain, clogging
one more time as you stand in the soapy,
rust-tinged water, dirty from the red clay
under your nails digging around bulbs
that need dividing before next spring. It will
find its way into the sweet potato stew,
the baked ziti, and the palak paneer. It will tickle
your throat as the coconut milk coats your palette,
warms your stomach. It will grab onto socks left
under the bed, weave between your toes to keep
your feet warm in winter.
Pamela Richardson
Long after I’m gone, my hair will lie
in a small box, a lock kept from the first
time I cut my bangs like a key biting,
a mountain range too high across my forehead.
It will remain in splintered wood in the
forest from a fort long forgotten, only three
boards hang from rusty nails and pine trees.
It will cling to the hem of my wedding dress
that hangs in the back of the closet
with a stain from the red wine I spilled
when we danced. It will wrap itself around
the slimy bolt in the shower drain, clogging
one more time as you stand in the soapy,
rust-tinged water, dirty from the red clay
under your nails digging around bulbs
that need dividing before next spring. It will
find its way into the sweet potato stew,
the baked ziti, and the palak paneer. It will tickle
your throat as the coconut milk coats your palette,
warms your stomach. It will grab onto socks left
under the bed, weave between your toes to keep
your feet warm in winter.