and into the bright world at 6am.
When your husband, turned on his side, reached out
and touched your breast for the last time
When you hurried his hand away
this morning, just like last night,
sure of at least 17 more years
and ignoring the insistent siren of your nipple.
When you chose the least flattering pants you owned,
a tan and cream disaster with fuchsia accents
all polyester and flammable,
because who were you really going to see today?
When you ate eggs
When, over the phone, you told your oldest daughter
that you would write it down for her,
and she could come by in her foreign car and pick it up–
it being the recipe for German potato salad
that every neighbor had asked for at least once.
When you thought of your firstborn,
mouthed his name without meaning to,
lied to the woman at the grocery store
who asked you if you had just said something.
When you couldn’t, for a whole 97 seconds,
remember the name of the son who had survived.
When you thought suddenly about praying
but couldn’t think of the German word for memory
instead mouthed, again, your boy’s name
and thought of his hair
of the 2 days he was your only child
of the thirty four years since you buried him.
When you stumbled walking from the car to house
and blamed your bad ankle,
the too bright sun,
When you blinked
and never stopped.
When your body sat in a bed, heart beating like there was time left.
When your children came in the middle their of lives,
stove burners on
When your husband touched your face
and no hand rose to hurry it away.
When a son whose name you would not remember ever again
if the machine should continue its in-and-out hiss
When he nodded his head.