I thought I’d be at his side when he died.
Didn’t think I’d find his body,
relied on the clinician
who said his cancer will take time
to spread. But death struck my husband
with a lizard-quick tongue.
Snatched him as he was reading,
a torn theater stub tucked between pages
marking his place.
I was washing dishes a room away—a thin wall
apart—belting out songs
I’ll never sing again. Believing we had months,
thinking there was time enough
to dry a second cup.