Your suicide came as no surprise
that afternoon I got the call
they had found you limp and blue
in the quarry, and the first thought
that came to me
was
did you take out the trash
before you left
which seemed too grim
to tell my coworkers,
the ones that flocked around me
in mocked sentiments, holding out their hands
to mine, the extended sorries, I could
do without those.
What good do they do an
old woman, minus husband?
how do they know this loss
which is something that sits on my tongue
without escape; there is no
word for this
I miss you
sounds fat in my mouth, and miss
is too young and pretty to sum up
the feeling of you having left me
I do everything in a silence
sleeping feels false
the sound of my lonely chewing
-all frozen and rapidly thawed, because really,
who is there to cook for now-
is too upsetting.
The moths outside my window
as I write this
flutter against the panes
they think this light
is the sun, they think they feel
warmth
and this reminds me again to
take a vacation, some place with
sun and sand,
Sun and Sand,
another youthful phrasing that
seems so outmoded, now.
I am outmoded; I was thrown
into the abyss of widowment,
sent off into some partnerless
exile
May I ask what is the point of
living if I cannot hear your breath
beside me, sleeping?
I hated your 2 am choking sounds,
your baby slumber,
the lumpiness of the body beside me
I was not surprised
the day that you left me,
Dear Howard,
I saw this coming
from the beginning.
YOUR SUICIDE CAME AS NO SURPRISE.
