Almost forever, there are some words 
that linger under a melancholy sun, 
some memories like the last breath 
in the creak of an empty house 
filled with dust, with dark walls: 
no pictures, no things, no sound.

 Outside the garden’s bright. The sounds 
of birds and popping

seeds, the words 
of day are etched upon the walls, 
the porch, the stones warmed by sun. 
The path through weeds to house 
remains so clogged with breath

you grab for strength, your breath 
stutters, falls prey to the sound 
of past years in the house: 
so many months gone to words. 
You’re aware of the sun 
lighting on the hall wall

like it always did, the wall 
near the bedroom, where breath 
came easy, where the morning sun 
fell on your shared bed. The sound 
of snores made you nudge words 
that echoed in the wakening house.

Love was there: the house 
held it, held the walls, 
held his words, 
held the barely taken breath 
he sighed to hush the sound 
of his sleeping. The sun

came up. The sun 
went down. The house 
saw days and days of sound 
both

good and ill and the walls 
stood fast with breath 
until the end. His last words

sounded like forever, but words 
don’t linger in a house like breath, 
don’t rise like sun over solitary walls.

Christine Klocek-Lim 
16 August 2003

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