Grief wolfed me from the inside gnawed my
spine and I could roll over and suffer or dig a
pit and bait it flay the beast on my marriage
bed I chose the shovel I chose the hunter’s
knife to slit grief scrotum to throat and no I
didn’t know I took a murderer as husband
and please keep in mind married so long I’d
acquired the habit of twoness two minds two
crowns two pairs of eyes the worst word in
any language alone
and letting go I felt
formal as a stone splitting and a brother-in-
law’s suit was a solution to my un-halving
yes frailty if frail is to bury my dead and seize
fruit growing over the grave and if I had to
do it again perhaps Polonius this time yes
even in his fussy grandiloquence I tell you
remarriage would’ve still been overhasty still
a thorn to my son still this old heart’s
cleaving
