Thanksgiving

Thank you, husband, for loving me 

even when I was not loveable,

for calling me by my true name 

and no other, for being my home

and always close by, 

for the lovely sounds but also

the quietude, the coolness and calm,

your courage and goodness.

Thank you for enabling me to sleep soundly 

through 13,000 nights.

Thank you for all this and for all 

the other vital things. 

Moving

Move, 

I say to me, 

move away from the shore,

move deep, 

move beyond the swells, below the waves and roar 

down into seabed, 

move along the reefs, along the vents, crawl with crabs, 

join your grief down there. 

Do not faint,

by that I mean let it move 

and let it be moved in you

which is to say 

accept your being, 

let grief have its way, 

which is to say, 

yes he is gone now and you 

will always, always know it. 

A special offer

Gone boy, what can I say 
about you to my friends 

over drinks? 

That I walk this house making sounds

that become your name? 

That I pull on my own hair?

That I'm startled awake,

my mouth chewed by ants, my throat 
sore from their scratching? 

What can I say? 

What can they say?

Silenced in pity as I think of you 
rusting barefoot on our bed 
so I talk of Macy's special offer, 
this new cologne I'm wearing, 

its bright scent bursts from my handbag 

like confetti. 

For example

I wonder how to live now 
that I'm not a wife.

For example, I needn't say,

Art, I'll be back at four. 

Nor need I return at four.

I needn't return by five

or six or really ever now

that I'm not a wife.

I won't be talking anymore.

For example, when I wake,

I make coffee, watch the news, 

dress and check the mail, 

all this and more

without a single word. 

And all the chores 

are mine now. 

That hammer on his desk?

It's mine though I could 

easily miss the nail.

 

And if I scream 

not a soul would hear 

now that I'm not a wife.