On the first day that she’s gone, when I can’t remember why -

I summon all the plans I made, I turn face-down the picture frames,

I pull her hair from shower drains, I start the car - drive far away

and turn home when daylight’s leaving.

On the first day that she’s gone I search for sense of meaning.

I need to fill a void.

I talk to hear a voice.

The weeks that passed I can’t recall - I stared through fence at festivals,

I grit my teeth, I blame it all,

I race to ends of summer sprawl -

then winter.

Gather up what matters.

If I’m holding on too tight,

Why won’t the memory shatter?

On the first day that she’s gone, a different kind of numb.

I see your ghost of catacombs of venues played, of empty homes -

I pass your place. I call your phone. I slur some words after the tone

and replay all the moments I spent in the softness of your touch,

your voice singing in my head.

When every day you’re gone maybe I’ll believe it -

In the emptiness of all.

In the sounds of children teething.