It's Still Life

Choice (an Imagist Poem)

Choice is the mug I didn’t take —
the chipped one,
her favorite.

Choice sits in silence —
across the kitchen table,
next to the phone I didn’t answer.

A single sock on the radiator.
The coat still on its hook.
The choice not to go.

Choice folds itself
into the napkin I twisted
while the pasta went cold.

Choice means I said nothing
when the window rattled
and she looked at me
like she was already gone.

There was a choice
between anger and quiet.

I chose the quieter grief.
Choice isn’t loud.
It’s not the slam of a door.
It’s staying.
It’s staying still.