OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS WERE NOT FORGOTTEN

     by Jackie Simmons

The day before my daughter's first birthday,
you fell down dead.
I didn't know it for years later, so consumed
with pregnancy & motherhood & struggling
to save a marriage I had turned into a hermit.

I remember sitting across a table from you,
hearing you read in your thunderous voice,
so quietly. The room was small, as was the
space between us. I wish the space between
us could lessen now.

Sometimes you looked into my eyes
and I turned away, your passion for life too fierce,
even as you wrote a poem called "Life Sucks"
and I wrote a poem called "Listlessly Loathing"
that you loved and made me read over & over
until I blushed from the heat in your eyes.

Now that I know you're gone,
I look around me.
Most of my friends are men with a few six packs
where ideally, there should only be one.
I worry about them, spend more time with them,
do what I wish I would have done with you.
With each kiss I give them,
I send one to you in heaven.