expiration date/poem

Jonathan Witte Expiration Date Nine years and still we cradle our grief carefully close, like groceries in paper bags. Eventually the milk will make its way into the refrigerator; the canned goods will find their home on pantry shelves. Most things find their proper place. Eventually the hummingbirds will ricochet against scorched air, their delicate beaks stabbing like needles into the feeder filled with red nectar on the back porch. Eventually our child  will make her way back to us. Perhaps. But I’ve heard that shooting heroin feels like being buried under an avalanche of cotton balls. For now it’s another week, another month, another trip to Safeway. We drive home and wonder why it is always snowing. Behind a curtain of snow,  brake lights pulse, turning the color of cotton candy, dissolving into ghosts. And with each turn, the groceries shift in the seat behind us. From the spot where our daughter used to sit, there is a rustling sound— a murmur of words crossed off yet another list, a language we’ve budgeted for but cannot afford to hear.