I don’t know why I feel so bereft
tonight. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
Oh sure, my mother, yes.
But at this point it seems that she will live
forever. If death didn’t kill her,
nothing will. Grief has become super-
fluous in my life. Like the little black
dress cut down and up to there
that I’ll never wear dangling
on a wire hanger in the closet
like a skin that’s lost its skeleton
along with the come-fuck me pumps
hiding in the box with soles
as new and unworn as newborn twins.
And you. But I’m always losing
you in the same grain by grain
erosion as the shore sliding
into the ocean. I’m used to
the sensation of sand slipping
out from under my feet.
Tonight’s no different
than any other night.
My hand is my only lover,
And this bed, my soft husband.
So why am I widowed?
Why do I watch the clock
and grieve every second ticking
off never to be ticked again?
Why do I mourn morning
certain that it will never come?