i still sleep
with the light on
in hopes it will travel through my ears
into my dreams
faster than the train did
the night your blood was too full of liquid confidence
for you not to
                              throw yourself in front of it
                           as if you were invincible.


i know i am supposed to be angry with you—
but is it wrong
that air does not feel any sweeter to me
without your sour breath?


is it wrong
to miss your smell of whiskey
because at least that meant
your heart
was still trying to clean out its wounds
was still trying to find a way to beat
around all the debris that
was telling you to
                throw yourself
            in front of a train.


the parts of me
that want to believe it was
an accident
wonder
                         did you even see the train?
                         was it just another collision to you?
                         where were you trying to go?
                         did you ever get there?


the parts of me
that knew you better
think
                       maybe it was one final exercise of control.
                       one last act of heroism;
                       the only way you could think to save    
                       yourself
                       and the world around you.
                       maybe the truth is
        you can not stop a    
                       falling star—
                       all you can do
                       is save everyone beneath it.

-

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"