Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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     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.  

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