Thursday, September 29, 2016

When I wake this morning

I am sorry I did not fall to the floor, 
did not sob, 
did not even 

when I saw you flattened 
on that long table 
under the white flash bulb 
of morning. 

I am sorry you did not look human. 
You seemed a form shaped in wax. 
A sculpt without ribcage. 

I am sorry I gave you a quick 
once over and sat down, 
my hands not knowing where to pose, 
my eyes riveted by you, by knowing
you will not wake up,
would not open. 

I am sorry I did not know 
what you were thinking 
those last months, 
even those last years,
perhaps ever. 

I should have asked 
more questions. 

When I wake this morning, 
questions drift from my dream, 
golden autumn leaves, 
fabulating, metastasizing,
piling up just before

they vanish.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

There is a time

There is a time in our marriage 
when the days move between us 
so sweetly, with such peace, they leave 
no footprint. 
They have the faint feel of dreams. 
They seem like mere glimpses into dreams. 
Mornings of cheese omelettes.
Afternoon strolls by the truth filled lake.
Microwaved leftovers for dinner 
in our laps by the TV.
He is the sauce 
and I the pasta. 
He is the Clint Eastwood movie 
and I am the popcorn. 
Now he is the water 

and I am the eyes.