After The Men Have Left

They take all the dictionaries with them.
They leave us with a stub of a candle.
They slam down all the hinges.
Sometimes our fingers get caught.
Sometimes we make up death penalties.
We stand close not touching.
We think our own thoughts.
We don't talk about the mess.
Sometimes we don't cry until
we have to get down on our knees
to clean under the toilet seat.
That which has been impure
will now smell just like lemon
even though the only fruit in the house
is blooming mold on its darkening skin.


Elizabeth Barbato was born in New England and now makes New Jersey home, where she teaches writing, drama and music. She has pieces in current or forthcoming editions of Apple Valley Review, Poetrybay, The Litchfield Review, Stride, Ghoti(fish),The Chimaera, All Things Girl, Word For/Word and Cantaraville.