YOUR HUSBAND IS UNDERGOING VASCULAR SURGERY, A POEM

Alone at home, you talk to the kitty camera while its eyeball stares blankly back,

its empty gaze tracking your motion,

as you eat your pizza, trembling

not knowing whether his beating heart will hear,

not knowing that he still can’t swallow,

not knowing whether he will ever sing again.

The last things you see at night are the

surprising flashes of

fireflies like sparklers,

or God’s little nighttime arsonists,

dancing dimension into the shadowy shed, flattened by the dark.

His unoccupied side of the bed

aches in your chest,

encroaches on your dreams.

There is no one to call with your 4:00 a.m. fears and

intrusive thoughts unraveling at the seams

so you spring out of bed to brave the blank page.

Kitty sniffs all his hats on the couch then follows invisible scents around the house.

He is not here; you are not there.

Kitty watches the front yard

from the bay window in search of sun.

You awaken to shrill

birdsong

and you discover your vibrato there

in the sacred joy of another day,

together.