She cannot open the morning
paper without the blackened number
distracting her resistant vision;
higher every day, how
many will it be this time? How many
fathers, mothers, sons, daughters tremble
beneath their futile camouflage, nightmares
unfolding across vacant eyes
and salt-frosted eyelashes? She cradles
a cup of steaming coffee between
her unstained fingers, new wedding
band tapping the hard ceramic. Imagines
his, pressed into calloused skin that hasn't
touched hers in months, too preoccupied
with learning the art form of enforced regret.
At night she stares at the ceiling, welcoming
insomnia, too afraid of what sleep
might bring. Her photograph lies folded against
his chest, thousands of miles away from
the empty side of the bed; sometimes
she forgets in the heat of a dream and turns,
greeted silently by the unwrinkled pillow and
faint smell of his favorite shampoo.