I see her heart, warm, beating, alive
rising and falling in time with her hopes,
and her breath, deep and ancient,
releases despair from the depths of her soul
as the room absorbs both daylight and night’s illusions.
Blond, scattered lines litter the pillow,
casting their love nets over cotton and
I wonder, as I stare, bleary-eyed and
piss desperate, I wonder how
her thoughts move inside;
where they go when she’s asleep;
how she manages the fragile pain of conversation
and how – dear God how? – she keeps it together,
when so many other’s died with half her torment?
I also realise, like so many fortunate men,
that she does it, this living thing,
because she is a Mother, A wife, My best friend,
and I am all the better for her honesty.