Afters

 

My life is made from afters, 

from endings. 

It is made from dust, 

clinging tightly to the floorboard behind the stove. 

It is made from towels of spilt seed left under the bed

and of ghosts lingering in their houses. 

When I say afters, 

I suppose I truly mean befores I didn’t know would be 

befores. 

 

It is made from before the pain set in, 

from before death arrived, 

from before he happened, 

or he happened

or he happened or he–  

It is made from resilience’s decaying mouth,

its teeth rotting from its skull

as it is asked to smile.

It could have been worse after all. 

 

My life is one of a survivor

who never learned 

to cherish the befores,

who never asked what could change

only did so when it was demanded.

No longer. 

I shall build a life that is made

of life.