I hear Dion sing--Abraham, Martin, and John
and a shallow spell of tears flips me
on my back.
Shallow because my soul is wrung
out. The chill, the rain, the unmoving
fog, the absence of life in the house,
all the empty rooms, especially
this room, the master room,
the sleeping room with the corner
that stares me down, the corner
where he died, all this opens
valves and the cruel truths
creep in to fill
the empty space with more
emptiness, to split me
open like a honeydew.
He had a strong, true heart
but no more power
than a flower.
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