The old wood rotted,
setting a trap.
It took the heaviness of your tread
on the flight of stairs
that bore you well
when you lived here
to break the step,
a gap in the ascent/descent,
a fracture in a picket fence,
a missing note in the scale of C
where neglect has dulled a piano key;
a decayed tooth gone from an ageing gum.
The table was made of new wood
that split down the middle
as we had done,
a fault-line cleaving intricate grain
where never the twain
shall meet again.
I gave the flawed object to you,
to eat meals from
in remembrance of me.
A green caterpillar
as fat as my thumb
has eaten the leaves
from your olive tree.