Outside, the snow is knee-high and edibly white.
            My footsteps two floors above the morgue
            —I am locked in. Here
            to answer calls in the middle of the night like
            My wife is dead and
            to be the one who stays awake with her after she arrives
            strips her and covers her
            with a blanket.
            Here to mop the floor if she purges...

            Before dawn I sit still
            searching
            what rough channel contains the code
            to break a memory of fingertips
            or my childhood by the water.

            Because I placed an infant with his stuffed dog
            my hands on a grandfather’s head
            someone’s wife in the cooler
            I need to place within myself something beautiful

            forget that loneliness below
            and how
            I must leave the ones I love
            alone, in the company of strangers.

Copyright © Janaka Stucky, 2006. All Rights Reserved.