by Andrew Kearns
I still smell you on the sheets
Not the smell of sickness
Of diseased cells spreading and multiplying
Nor the slightly antiseptic smell of hospitals
That lingered long after you came home
Just you
Shea butter and Chanel
The faint traces of the dinners you cooked for us
Pages of old books from the stories you would read
Paint from the portraits and landscapes you loved to work on
I still smell you on the sheets
And I can’t bear to wash them
But you raised me to make my bed and change the sheets