After the funeral, after the last
handshake, regrets, regrets,
we are alone in a house
never to be full again
no matter how we rearrange
his room. Remember, love,
how before his birth
we were only two, rehearsing
for the rest of our lives alone?
We threw away that script
and now we have no lines.
When the door has closed
we stand in the hall,
tableau vivant posed to listen
forever to receding footsteps,
slam of car door in the street.
I lift a hand to your waist,
you lean your head to mine,
then turn to rise to our bed
where these moments began.
My task is turning out lamps
one by one, coaxing the dark
from corners and under chairs.
Light from your bedside
trails down the risers to my feet.
I will follow this path
to the source,
past the hollow space
we must learn to enter,
into the place we hallow
by our need to wake
in dark or day in reach
of each other’s hands.
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