
This poem is from The White Museum.
Blank
When I came to my mother’s house
the day after she had died
it was already a museum of her
unfinished gestures. The mysteries
from the public library, due
in two weeks. The half-eaten square
of lasagna in the fridge.
The half-burned wreckage
of her last cigarette,
and one red swallow
of wine in a lipsticked
glass beside her chair.
Finally, a blue Bic
on a couple of downs
and acrosses left blank
in the Sunday crossword,
which actually had the audacity
to look a little smug
at having, for once, won.
- “Everybody in Amsterdam Speaks English.” Not. - December 4, 2025
- Poets and Poems: Hedy Habra and “Under Brushstrokes” - December 2, 2025
- Happy Thanksgiving, from Tweetspeak Poetry (and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow) - November 27, 2025

Maureen Doallas says
Excellent poem. Wonderful details. I especially like the image of the house as “museum of her /unfinished gestures”.
I’m not familiar with Bilgere’s work but will plan to take a look at it. Thank you for spotlighting him.