To Grieve Like Kollwitz
That night in mid-January,
I prayed to the God
of waiting rooms,
swimming for my life,
and yours.
I can still
summon that fear,
waking before dawn
with tears
and cries for help,
a litany
of the impoverished.
The silence
surrounded us
like an absence
I still can’t
put my finger on.
I’ve met with it since.
A pipe dream
to think your brain
would heal. The long
slow road to the morning
you asked me
to rub your back.
It would be
the last time
I touched you alive.
What was it Emily said?
I should not dare
to be so sad.