print versionJOHN W. EVANS
Sleep
Forty Months
Terrific silences organized the room
where I slept after your death.
I was terrified to leave it.
I imagined clearly the hallway
on the other side of the door,
narrow, well-lit, and neatly tiled.
I took a pill, arranged the sheets,
and pulled the room up over my shoulders.
Out of breath I woke between doses
to write down those dreams I remembered.
For quite a while, I talked to someone,
winnowing fear and catharsis
from the same few memories.
One hour passed, then another
therapist, a different city, sometimes
I tried not to repeat myself
or insist that my grief was ending. 
Sleep
Young Widower