Melancholy Poem by Allison Benis White

Melancholy



Only her absence is more stunning—the cello in the corner
between her fingers and legs. If you can hear her, you are still alive.

Maybe a child cups her mother's face with two small hands,
says please. Sometimes it helps to think of this or nothing.

In the morning, the movement of hands as they place
a wooden barrette in a child's hair. If one hand holds, the other must close.

Listening is like this. Without you, her fingers circle the strings,
the window above squares several colors.

Near the stairs, a woman slips her hand through a smoke ring,
smiles as it opens and disappears. Her pleasure, always, is in its disappearance.

Maybe this is enough: to lose. The lift of your hand
seems too simple a gesture to signify this or good-bye.

And across the room, white roses climb the wallpaper.
And a portrait of a woman in a red dress,
who sat down in a red chair, who held very still.

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