grieving from the prognosis
trying to rest a moment
(recovery is not yet possible)
“Lay your head on my chest,”
my darling wife invites.
I do.
“Sorry,” she whispers, “time and
gravity have pulled my pillows
into my armpits.”
(humor always our drug of choice)
“It’s okay,” I murmur, dimly amused
in the darkness of grief.
I don’t need pillows, Sweetest;
what I need
is your heartbeat against my ear.

dmpitchford 12/1/23