IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I FELT THIS WAY. THIS BUTTER IN MY GUT.
LIKE MOTHS HATCHING

Outside, the snow is knee-high and edibly white.
My footsteps two floors above the morgue
—I am locked in. Here
to answer calls in the middle of the night like
My wife is dead and
to be the one who stays awake with her after she arrives
strips her and covers her
with a blanket.
Here to mop the floor if she purges...

Before dawn I sit still
searching
what rough channel contains the code
to break a memory of fingertips
or my childhood by the water.

Because I placed an infant with his stuffed dog
my hands on a grandfather’s head
someone’s wife in the cooler
I need to place within myself something beautiful

forget that loneliness below
and how
I must leave the ones I love
alone, in the company of strangers.