Friday, December 21, 2007

Poem in progress: Quick Widow

Quick Widow

In the darkest hour, you cry out,

“He’s dead!”

And commence that frantic chant,

fumbling for the light through a dreamy grog

to see the cat squinting up at us,

blinking, orange, and annoyed,

wondering why we disturb the still, smooth silk of his sleep.

Catching our breath,

we shuffle across the cold bathroom tiles and quietly try to laugh it off,

then scratch the fuzz between his ears

as we climb back into bed.

Your breaths deepen so quickly,

but I lay there all night long,

eyes wide open to the ceiling and arms crossed,

listening through the dark for your heartbeat.


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