In the midst of mashing potatoes, I look up to find your face
staring at me through the kitchen window, speculatively—as a wolf
might stare down an owl. Break in now? Wait till she sleeps?

“Dying doesn’t scare me,” you lied, the last time that I saw you.
“Here’s how it works: Push back your chair, grab your keys,
and leave.” Then you rose and did exactly that, slamming

the door so hard, I could never get that thing properly closed again.
And it was perfect, just perfect, that my glass was empty
with Billie Holliday killing it:  I’ve been down so long…

There is too much regret in this room. Writing this, I decide to burn
the potatoes in solidarity with your cremation. Yes I’m still alive, you’re not,
but whose fists are those, beating on the window.