There are only crude implements to measure the passage of time
Now that the baby is gone.
We’ve used up our friends’ indulgences.
When Kelly Anne shows friends pictures of the baby
They scribble the names of counselors.
When you’re not sure whether you prefer to live or die
Time is a buzzing fly, lugubrious as an afternoon meeting.
Kelly Anne and I sit on the couch at 3 AM
As the TV blares inconsiderately
My favorite cure for conversation.
Eventually we begin undertaking the tasks of disposal.
The baby’s rattle. The baby’s clothes.
There are so many things that I cannot bear to do
But there are only two of us.
The word “survivors” hardly seems appropriate.
We amplify each other’s agonies.
But what would you call people standing in the ruins
Defiantly holding hands?
Michael Koenig is a writer, editor, and designer in Oakland, California, who has published stories and poetry in recent issues of The MacGuffin, Harpur Palate, Hardboiled, and Paterson Literary Review. His work has also been anthologized in Awake! A Reader for the Sleepless (Soft Skull Press) and The Shamus Sampler 2, an international detective fiction collection.