The Forensic Science of Grief

You breathed your last breath from the air

in this room;

that threadbare Persian carpet

holds flakes from your skin;

hairs from your head

corkscrew the dented cushions

scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;

bed linen scented with your sweat

the goose down doona that stole

your last warmth;

sleep spit and tears

human moisture that permeates

the acrylic layers of your pillow;

an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;

a clipped nail that flew off

somewhere out of sight;

that new toothbrush used only once;

your flannel and towel still drying out;

the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;

the talcum powdered slippers

abandoned under the brass bed.

Each moment of everyday

we shed ourselves

shed dead cells and renew –

a cycle of shedding

until the last

shedding of ourselves