Poetry by Sarah Mills

Matt Casagrande CC




I Keep Thinking About How Empty Your Fridge Was,

how poetry was what fed you.
If you were still alive, tonight’s a night 
I’d drink straight from a bottle of red zinfandel 
and get under the cool sheets in my dark bed and call you. 
I’d read you the poem about the man pinching ants 
off the floor with tissues, and the one about 
the Gustav Klimt painting. 
You’d read one of the classics 
and the wine would settle,
softening my bones
so your voice could carry me,
gentler as the night wore on, 
almost a whisper by the end
like you were fading. 
I’d close my eyes and see your cigarette smoke
barely hanging on.
How many books were you reading 
when you died?
How many endings didn’t you get to? 
Do you remember when I cried 
while reading a poem aloud?
We were so good at being lonely together.
I keep thinking about your fridge — 
not even a box of baking soda or expired milk.
That time I asked if you believed in God 
and you said yes, sweetheart. Yes.
I asked why and you gestured to the floor, 
all your books stacked along the carpet like props.
Your empty fridge without a single egg
or slice of American cheese.
And you said because, sweetheart.
There’s got to be more 
than this. 

​

Sarah Mills is a freelance writer and editor. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Rogue Agent, Glass Mountain, Philadelphia Stories, and elsewhere. You can visit her at sarahmillswrites.com.