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.