A month:
the time it takes
a season to change,
less than half the summer,
the time it takes a baby
to learn day from night.
It’s taken less time than that
for my life to
break.
To think of losing him
feels like losing
the ground.
Here, white bottles
of lost hope
filled with herbs
still sit,
gathering dust,
on the indigo glass
coffee table.
I line them now in a row.
Wipe their dust.
Place them one by one in a bag,
head back to the hospital.
A month is enough time
for the moon to fade
and be remade.
But not long enough
to say I’m sorry or
goodbye.