Because I awaken
at 6:19
to pain
as if my heart
were a wishbone
pulled apart,
I am not surprised
when they climb
the stairs
to tell me
you are dead.
Now I understand
what fear is:
waiting
for the messenger
to tell me what
I know.

I refuse to say
pass away
or even die
words both passive,
natural, insist
instead on killed,
word cruel enough
to pluck you
from this life.

One night you come back fat.
When I ask why, you say,
the dead don’t exercise,
but we do eat dinner.

I dreamt last night
my friend left her green parrot
in my care,
but I failed to feed or give it water
and when she came
to claim it, the bird lay dead
next to a vase of browning lilies.

Suddenly, you appear
in the dark sea
of my dream, saying
“I don’t remember when
we last made love.”

Be patient, Dear Heart,
I’m learning how
to love you dead.