Left

(for Maurice Sendak)

Our room keeps some spirit of the congress we held inside, trapping ghosts
who hang in the air like far-off birdsong.

I cannot disperse these dybbukim,
I cannot open the windows.
I can only peel the poster gum from the walls and sweep the sugar from the countertops.

I can only clean so long before crying
like an old man cries
for his friends whose departure he cannot delay.

Is there lamb’s blood on the lintel?
I almost look, wondering
at the quietness that lingers
like lipstick stains on a wineglass rim.