Morgan Guards the Hill

In death,
Morgan guards a hill
where Roman soldiers camped.

He walks the battlefield
steps over corpses
collects swords, shields, to stack
in piles.

He sits with a warrior whose face unlined
scavenges the night for satellites.

Wars bind them.

They talk for centuries.
In silence.

How blade
carved organs, no bones to nick its polished surface.

How radiation
pierced skin, mucus membranes, teeth, to gouge tumor’s door.

Morgan asks after the family left at home.
He aches for the orphaned son.
He comforts the young soldier by his side.
He quests for what it means to be a man.

I push
the waters back.
I rise
wounded.
I walk
each step away

from a day
when I knew
the love
of a man
who would guard a hill
where Roman soldiers camped.

We Danced

We danced
when we thought you would live.

We were tourists
among the ghosts in Old Town Albuquerque

walking past the crowds
past the Navaho code talkers
past the past.
Toward a song of streets
a quinceanera?
a block party?

Amplified music.
Dehydrated Air.
The night before my niece’s wedding.

When we thought you would live
we danced.

33 then 34 then 35 radiation treatments
mouth sores, coughed-up blood
stomach tube, skin the trunk of an oak
morphine and then more
more
more
more
morphine

you were so brave, my love

Standing, swaying, singing with the band.
Even holding onto your walker, you
led me across the floor.

We danced
when we thought you would live.

I picked a flower and twisted it into a curl of my hair.
I picked you, a jewel of a man.
I let you pick me.

Together, we danced.

Stages of Grief

Stage 7: Schizophrenia
I saw his voice.
I smelled his shadow.

My love, he said,
I did not want to leave you.

Stage 15: Widow Brain
You know, when you walk into a room
And forget why?
It’s like that—except
I know what I’ve forgotten.

Stage 1: Denial
I am on the landing
halfway up
halfway down
the stairs.

I remember eating dinner.

Bob, his snout over the top stair
stares

My husband could be

upstairs at his desk
killing demons in WarCraft
downstairs in his chair
watching Master Chef

Stage 48: Dammit
He was right,
He did do more dishes.

Stage 23: Self-medicating at Denny’s with Carbs
10-inch plate
8-inch pancakes
Butter, syrup
teabag bleeding
onto napkin

Stage 27: Despair
Joan Didion calls it
the vortex
a vibrating shadow at the horizon edge
connects to a memory of you
I drown.

Stage 20: Joy
Sitting on the cracked, bulbous, coffee-brown
leather chair he moved in with

Bob asleep with his head on my thigh
His small black body between my legs

You know the rule:
You cannot wake the dog.

I will sit here as long as I can
until I have to pee.

Stage 100: Psychosis
I am paying $90 a month
For a dead guy’s cell phone.

Stage 79: Progress
Thinking about thinking about
dating
More than a day without crying
actually liked that movie
walked 10,000 steps
wrote a poem about something
other than my dead husband.