Lamps drip sour light and mercury
carrying sounds of erosion
roaming through pipes and three-story cities.

Everywhere is the lessened trickle
of Heaven through bare metal
tickling the gutters, wetting the lawn

sputtering the candles, leftovers
of lovers. I hate this word, it’s the one hiding
behind the drapes, skin wan on the covers.

The air breathed into the window
is heat-heavy, hallowed. Sieved through
lacy silk embroidered with geraniums

my mother grew, effortful. The dregs
of this are summoned every other month
to the whimper of the mourning dove;

this love. I don’t speak of anymore
for I am so sure it’s missing from
the cooling departure of faces on rain;

one more reason to shutter the windowpane.

– Zachary Dankert

Author’s Note: It’s funny: many, many months after I’d written this poem, am I really so sure that this love is missing?