ElegyThere is no metaphor for death.There is only this heavy weight in your handof another handand the steady rhythm that measures out lifeuntil there is nothing left to measureand you are left only in the quiet white smell,thinking,This is real,and wishing it werent.
AbsenceWhen I woke to the earliest taste of light I wonderedwhy the bed was so cold, and the floor did notspeak with your weight. Always before there was already breath warmingbefore I stirred, but now I am left to warm the house alone.I do not turn on the lights. There is enough gray sun to keep my kneesfrom the corners of tables, and I can move myself to the sinkand flush the sleep from my eyes—but that sleep will not be washed.Still around each lid are the marks where time has abused me.The cold slips under my robe and touches my skinas you used to, fingers of ice across my legs and shoulders. I pull closerthe terry cloth that is fraying around the edges, gray as I am,gray as the sunlight, but I cannot keep away those hungry fingers.I cannot love this cold dawn and its persistence in coming despite me,to spite me. I cannot forgive the morning that fills the places you left empty.I cannot do these things, but still I always wake to the cold touch of another dayAnd open my hea