Wife

Husband, 1964-2023

There is no night that safely strikes the day
like an unwilling set. You may divide the dark
between  sleep, and none. You may resent the light
and watch your saints disappear into the sand.
His dog waits, wags its tail like your heart
hates its own beat. You own the day,
you own the night, you may watch
your fingers grow old, you may watch
the ring that betrayed you so.

There is no night that safely numbs
the day. You may ask the night to tell
you lies, just one picture show,
with no loss. In you, love flies beyond
your hands, your body, your brain starred
with memories. The world spins and you
cling to it, just to cling.

We can breathe
alongside each other. We can. Talk across
the states. Pretend we know what to do.
There is no night that safely wakes the day.

Karen Nystrom is a poet and playwright. She has an MFA in Writing from Vermont College. Her poems have appeared in 8142 Review, The Denver Quarterly, The Harvard Review, The Indiana Review, The Nebraska Quarterly, Passages North, and others. Her play, SMOKE, was produced by Three Brothers Theatre.  She lives in Ellison Bay with her spouse and dog.