Tuesday, March 15, 2016

If I knew the answer

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.