Clanking trams pass my windows
opened to the street. In a mason jar
almost full with water, I place roses,
given by friends, in sun
atop the kitchen table. A stem breaks
and is floating. Furniture arrives
in waves: a couch on Tuesday, TV
on Wednesday. I use my phone
to read at night while waiting for lamps
to brighten my rooms. Alone
I’m learning what emptiness
doesn’t have to be. For the first time
since leaving him I feel a virtuous breeze
from the outside. Before, sirens
from a hospital would wake me
believing earthquake.
Now, it’s the trams ferrying commuters
at dawn. The roses bloom
for weeks. I’m surprised at my hardiness
in this new apartment.
The rituals I once performed
replaced with better ones.
Andrew Garvin (he/him/his) is a gay poet. His work has been featured with the Guggenheim Museum in New York, The Pacific Review, Silk Road Review, and more. He received his MFA in poetry from Virginia Commonwealth University, Master’s of Social Work from Columbia University in New York, and BA from the University of Southern California. He lives in San Francisco.