A Poem for my Love

Countries

With each extinguished light
the house contracts.
The Japanese lamp
with the purple Indian scarf
draped over it-
the fireplace, the 1910 French upright,
the whole living room-turned-
office -gone.
The bare bulb in the tiny hall
across from our pantry,
dining room and Thomas’
miniature jewel paintings -gone.
In the kitchen the red swag lamp
and the white (on one switch),
the window box with Lily
of the Peace, the little ficus
and African Violet Christie brought
along with her guitar -gone.
The stove still stands in light,
shed by the hood bulb, but there’s no need
for it to keep vigil, though you often
leave it on -gone. A hall door closes,
separating beds and bath from
the daytime spaces. A nightlight
shines above the sink, keeping
the bathroom with its Polynesian
wood-framed mirror with us
as we leave for our respective rooms.

This morning, I noticed the dark nothing
beyond the hallway door and understood:
You don’t want your first task to be
retrieving the kitchen for us from the night.
You’d rather it wait through to morning,
ready to give its space for breakfast
at the wooden table we bought at Paradise Garage-
Organic cereal with fresh blueberries,
marion berries, golden grapes and
apricots you cut into small pieces
before dropping them into my bowl.

©2007 Brol Gemmer. All right reserved.