He dared not pray
for fear of silencing
an all too quiet cosmos,
anticipating answers from an
all too non-existent god.
His knees collapsed,
folding in upon themselves
beneath a weight that
gravity could not produce,
weight that inexplicably remains
when mass has been removed.
Bound exclusively by physical law
the kitchen chair supported this,
a body momentarily less a man,
the imploded essence of one who loves,
when what is loved is lost.
Her chair, across the dimly lighted table
had nothing to contain such loss,
so when his eyes on folded arms
beheld a darker, deeper moment
it crumpled into twisted steel and cloth
as if to emulate the man.
He would cry when magazines arrived
addressed to someone only there
because he’d held her there
and could not let her go, and phone calls
from unknowing solicitors.
But nothing would ever feel like this
his first hours in an empty life.
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