Still

Four months later, his death still dims the light
in every room.
Still chills, still silences.
His robe still feels heavy on me--
yes I wear it still but I've let go
of parts of him. I've plunged into
that work like a mop into a bucket,
unpleasant work that must be done.
Still I feel a sting when I see his coat hanging
next to mine. Mints in the pockets, still fresh.
I feel too full and too empty,
like a hostage deprived of tenderness
who sweeps the floor to keep on going.
Still I tip toe past his ashes
as if he needed rest.