To those who’ve asked Anna how it feels to know she’ll likely die
Alone without her husband—meaning me—at her side for comfort as she
Nears some future ending which may or not bring with it some late solace
Though of course we never—any of us—know what awaits each of us alone
No matter who might stand by us briefly though I know as you might here in my faux
Venetian village by the Pacific where for two weeks more exactly I’m twice
Anna’s age & yet young as I am to those who’ve asked Anna I have nothing to say
Not lit by a luminous certainty I’ll be at peace only when those who’ve asked Anna
Are left at last alone & ripped by a silence bloody as August sky