Asking for help

When he's gone I will stare at the left side of our bed

for days, weeks, maybe longer, and his absence 

will astonish me each time I open his closet door 

and see the orphaned shoes shined and lined

with a two-way stretcher and I will admire once 

again his tidy ways

when he's gone I will forget his grumblings 

and inward leanings, 

the pelican legs slathered and festooned to the bed, 

the anxiety and tears as mettle and firmness 

flow out of him.

I will forget these scraps of the man, 

the lips that curl in fury, 

all will be forgotten 

and in their place there will be silence and air, 

swollen and still. There will be strangeness.

When he’s gone I will only remember the laughter 

and pillow fights, his 40th birthday, his cummerbund flashing. 

All things I have trouble remembering now during 

this long endurance, this slow annihilation, 

these long days of our misfortune.

But when he’s gone, I will be asking for help--the coming

desolation can’t be lived alone.  

When he is gone, I will think of his confiding eyes,

they were my heart's oasis.