JO McDOUGALL

When Grief came to visit,

she hung her skirts and jackets in my closet.

She claimed the only bath.

When I protested,

she assured me it would be

only for a little while.

Then she fell in love with the house,

repapered the rooms,

laid green carpet in the den.

She’s a good listener

and plays a mean game of Bridge.

But it’s been seven years.

Once, I ordered her outright to leave.

Days later

she came back, weeping.

I’d enjoyed my mornings,

coffee for one;

my solitary sunsets,

my Tolstoy and Molière.

I asked her in.