Maybe this is what happens to the men who go out for cigarettes and never
come home. your bare feet whisper against faded pine as you come back
with lemonade. his chair is still rocking, his wallet still on the table;
the yard is empty and breathless.
not a space which has been left--
one from which something is missing.

probably you were fighting.
this is what the police will think.
they will tell you to wait.
their interests are facts, procedures--incantations of official wisdom.
certainly they can't be expected to believe your story even if

across town a woman took two buckets and went out to pick figs.
vanished. her footprints stopped at the tree;
no trail wandering to the marsh
to be caught by a headless slave guarding gold.

with death there is protocol.
flowers, bathing, dressing the body.
the scent of camphor in tins by the coffin.
for you there is waiting.
the keeping up of appearances.

it scares you, this emptiness pushed right up against the edge of being.
doing laundry, cooking, making love, the void catches you in the gut
and you freeze. look over your shoulder,
half expecting him to round the corner.
at the bus stop, the drugstore counter, you see him
from the corner of your eye. he grows taller, sharper,
lights a cigarette, becomes someone else.
you reel away as from a precipice.

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