“Interior With a Mirror,” oil on canvas, by Vilhelm Hammershoi, c. 1907.

by Cecil Morris

Grief stands shirtless in boxers at my fridge
and looks as cold air spills over his feet.
He eats all the ice cream, even the frost-
crusted rocky road of uncertain age.
He puts the nearly empty milk carton
back, lets my Special K go stale for want
of closing, spills his sunflower seed shells
on the couch and lets them sift down between
the cushions. He drops damp towels on carpet,
on bed, ignores the smell of mildew rising,
will not clean the bathroom or do dishes
or vacuum. He builds me tiny black holes
and scatters them through my day, surprises,
he says, so I know that he still loves me.

Cecil Morris is a retired high school English teacher. He has poems appearing in The Ekphrastic Review, New Verse News, Rust + Moth, The Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere.