Erica Minton

ELIJAH

I always keep an open space.
There is a place set at my table,
a spare room with the best bed.
I have enough food for a small army.

There is space set aside for you
near me, or in my arms, or in the corner
of my eye. I keep blessings ready.
I write goose eggs in my checkbook,

I hold a place for you in long lines,
and I make more tea than I can drink.
There are doubles of things, spares.
I cannot use this much detergent.

You could fit inside my zeroes.
Someone else considers you, factors
you in to her weekly shopping list.
You are using her forks, sleeping

in her second-best bed. She has arms,
a checkbook, detergent. Her space
isn’t extra, doesn’t gape in waiting for you.
You are her furniture, not the ghost

that just might walk back in.