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