Pain

The day I learned my wife was dying

I thought of the interior pain of those

who loved her, starting with me.

But no x-ray machine would show it;

pills, operations, nothing could prove it.

The people who loved her would look

perfectly healthy. I’m not really, I’d say,

I’m really very sick. Ditto all the others.

Perhaps we could hold up signs describing

just where we hurt; or wrap ourselves

in bloody bandages, use crutches and canes

to explain the degree of our interior pain.

Friends might guess my mountain of loss,

but I’d buy ads on TV to tell strangers.