When I wake this morning

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.

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. 

Leave the light on for me

We talk about our death way before it's necessary.

Once when we are newly wed, he whispers

 I want to go first--I must never live without you. 

I feel shame; I do not want to go first. 

Do not want to go at all, not ever. 

So I take his hand in mine and joke:

Ok but leave the light on for me!

Even a jest makes me shiver. 

I am overcome by this man but not 

because he cannot live without me.

I am overcome because he can bear his death. 

Later when he is sick and looking down 

into the grave, he only cries once and it is brief. 

After that he is ready. 

He is calm, waiting to be taken. 

Waiting as if for an airport limo.

Lightening

For a long time, I do not open 

his closet door. 

But today is different, today 

I do. 

Today as if it were just a closet, 

I turn the knob 

as if it were a small dark room 

for storage

not a passageway. 

Today I open it prepared 

to face his lumber shirt, 

his jeans, his brown leather boots.

Today I am not prepared to see him 

in a flash of light

that makes his hair glow

like a halo. 

How tall he seems, how straight,  

how unbent 

just like before, 

but silent, so silent

as never before, 

how he seems to float

on a sky above a sky. 

Stupor

Sometimes I need proof that he once was 

-- can't trust my mind, it's made up things before. 

sometimes I close my eyes just to to see him, 

just to peak at him again

dozing in the chair 

on the inside of my lids, just to see 

him folding clothes,

just to see him stirring 

meatball soup--he looks good in his bones--

just to see him, sometimes, just to see him 

flossing while we watch the evening news, 

just to see him like that again.

And then the whole world stops, 

the whole world shatters into bits of glass 

right there behind my eyes, 

the whole world bursts 

and I am melting at the knees

inside a hale of this confetti.

. 

Ghosts

I have never seen a ghost

nor known anyone who's seen a ghost. 

I wish to see a ghost to prove there’s more 

to life than what we measure. 

What I have seen is the dead. 

I have seen a taut face dusted with flour 

and dense as stone.

But if I could see a ghost, I would overcome my dread

and speak, not knowing what to expect from a ghost. 

I would ask about God of course and karma, 

about all this suffering.

I would ask about feelings,

I would ask, are there feelings Man hasn't felt?  

But first, first I would ask about him. 

Atlas

Where in the world might I go now 

that I can go anywhere ? 

Drop a coin on the atlas and tell me 

where it lands: there I could go.

I can go anywhere now. 

But my own nature is here  

where the sky shivers in fog 

and the sun glows silver 

and the effect is mystic.

I could go anywhere now 

but I will stay by the bay, by this ocean, 

by these mountains--by all this

unfair share of beauty.

I could go anywhere but 

here lights blink from cities,

leap from the ocean foam, 

from the kindred faces. 

I could go anywhere but some nights 

I can't sleep missing him, 

missing all the lost days that drip 

from memory, so many they could 

form a deep lake.

So I will stay here with these drops.

Even though the days are flying fast as birds 

escaping from their cage, even though 

slowing them is beyond prayer,  

I stay anchored in their mist. 

I could go anywhere but here I wouldn't 

move a cloud 

or change a scent--the marsh salt's alright with me-- 

as is every color, every pattern, every rumble 

on the street, 

every scene a little treat.