1 Week Without

Dear Regina,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider it in all its aspects. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty.

It speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You put the notebook on the empty mattress next to you and thank God again for The Gift.

But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils.

You close your eyes. You sleep. You miss him.

This is how it works.