What small thing I gave you
I've forgotten.
When we sputtered on the basement floor
How did that feel?

I said, you are not here, not anymore
Nothing walks in the kitchen
before I turn on the light.
Still I pretend

The water haunts the drain
Rises like a Judgment bride
and fouls the air
like a shiny, smirking Jesus child
Like Lazarus
Like a hand holding hands
still reaching.

What do you want?  What was it called?

a swelling, fingers, spreading apart
pushing up, then rivers
and six inches of tepid water

This is no place for a waiting heart
These walls are not to be contemplated against.
This bed is to be yours, again
But it is not for my aching,

pressing,
gritting
tribute.

It is not for the dead
to walk up to and find me
when I've finally fallen
into my own, mortal
mockery of Sleep
after six whole days.

Six, after which they'd given up---
The ghosts---
and left

Because they can't lie down
next to me
and they can't wake me
and they can't remind me
what it was to touch your warm body.