Average Lifespans of Our Respective Genders: A Study


Some nights I hate biology.  The beat

of his heart in an aging chest is steady still;

we have decades left, if all goes well.

Yet odds are, some sunrise I will meet


a day that does not hold his face,

a day preceding years without his hands

on me.  I’m flying home.  Criss-cross the land,

yet even in this high, removed space,


I close my eyes and he is here, the scent

of soap and sweat and man.  Yet how long

will it remain, this scent, when he is gone?

I understand why grieving widows rent


their clothes, raked face with bloody nails,

and pierced the night with their abandoned wails.




March 24, 2013

somewhere over the mid-Atlantic