Friday, February 26, 2010
When You Were Dead by Rogers, Bertha
The other day, I dreamt you were dead, and
I woke to laughing—my own voice, laughing,
in February’s bed. Morning’s light—
low, white, like slowed snow—overspread
the room. My breath was icy above quilts.
My good husband—his breath cold too, little
clouds of north wind—slept next to me, war m
in our own winter, our chosen, bed.
You may indeed be dead—or you may well
be laughing, rallying in another
woman’s bed. I don’t know, don’t care—
but I must admit I’m still provoked
by the memory of your wintry wit,
glacial smile. I believe you know.
Copyright © Bertha Rogers 2010