in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name
not aware I am there,
nor would she care
if I open the door without making
a sound,
I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me
when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away
the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room
"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated
the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open
that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains
which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough
not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited
until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar
only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground