Wednesday, January 7, 2015

How You Will Live Alone

You will go on, noting the pressing half-light,
the hollow of every shadow missing
next to you on the pavement where you stand. 

You will listen for the memory of a voice,
for that hopeful vibration, for some residue 
of a fading chord, for explanation. 

You will observe our marriage living in between:
the persistent growth of hair after combs are misplaced, 
the nail beds mooning wax and wane against your teeth.

Someone will always insist there is a future absence 
from this absence— 
as if winter were not the anticipation of spring,

as if cold were not measured by the wanting
warmth of sunlight, as if our love were not punctuated 
by these nights you did not intend to spend 

in silence. October will sometimes end in a pale shudder,
like a collapsed lung gasping at another year 
come and gone that I intended to go on 

holding you. You will slip your hand into a patient glove
to feel how we both are haunted, and you will know 
this lonesome divide cannot possibly be yours, alone.

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