Für Elise
A girl I never knew in high school found me online the other day as we commented on
women's rights, government control of the uterus,
and which Harry Potter movie was the best.
I remember her from back then, vaguely -
a shadowy blob of smart girl;
I think she played an instrument.
On Monday her husband died
just a week shy of their two month anniversary.
It's thought that he jumped off the top of a parking garage
and flew for a very short time.
My five-years husband - my dear, incorrigible bear -
is in the next room sleeping.
If I'm really still I think I can feel our first child
pushing at the walls of my body, dancing.
What sort of loss is deep enough to hollow us out,
to replace all hope with mold and dust?
When he leapt, did he hold his arms out in front of him?
Did he think of the broken girl left behind?
Did he wonder what she'd write on Facebook,
just a single sentence:
“my husband died on monday”
The loss too great
the roof too high
Just one room over,
my husband sleeps,
hogging the blankets,
his feet uncovered.
I press a hand to my lightly swollen belly
and ache for a stranger I might have once known.