Empty Vases

We wait by the empty flower pots

near the closed door where he used to leave sandwiches

that were missing their edges. Like volcanic ashes, voices from

the other room, where his mom likes to pray, spread

then hardens when touched by tears. “We used to be in love,”

a whisper beckoned from around the corner, near the

antique vase with scars left over from

the other day. Glass tears encompass the canvas skin of a man who stands

at the door with nothing on the other side. “Love,” he said

heaving, possessing a tongue salivating

with bad intentions, “it’s easy to chase but not to hold.”

You live with empty spaces,

and they look full from afar—pots, doors and the room behind it,

sandwiches,

love. It’s something to chase

with wine or vodka, not with legs that

fall from cramped muscles and creaking bones of

a wounded ankle. But the man at the door turned to me,

his arms open like Christ the Redeemer, and

flowers grew from the empty bowels of

the cracked vase.

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