I’d like to use up all spare bits
before I die.
The pencil stub in a series of final drawings,
the small squares of coloured cloth
in motley quilts,
the words in long poems, chapbooks, wallpaper.
I could use up the watercolour paints:
the last daub of vermilion
in a birthday card for a friend.
Then I’d wash and dry the plastic tray,
and—with economy of movement—
place it in the recycling bin.
I’d leave no trace of food in the fridge.
I’d blend the beet heel, the last cup of
soy milk, and the softening apple into a
smoothie to nourish me on my death bed.
Could I use up every drop of my love?
I’d squeeze it out like honey from
a bear-shaped bottle, wasting nothing.
I’d squeeze the last drop
onto your waiting tongue,
Leaving my heart clean, empty.
After all of this using up, I’d wipe
down the ashy counters
with a steady hand.
I’d rinse and wring the
faded blue dishrag.
Then I would drape that rag
neatly, deliberately, over the
Poem and photograph by Madeline Walker on Black Friday 2019