Facing It

It’s time to brush the dust from your black suit
that you preserve behind your sports coats, ties.
There’s something in your eyes; you reach back, mute,
retrieve the suit, remembering her cries

upon your wedding night, her legs bent, tight,
her breath as warm as light in your dark bed.
And afterward, her head by yours all night
as you half slept, your legs a pleasant lead.

You wore this suit that night. As fresh tears sprout,
you choke back sobs, and smack the suit’s broad shoulders.
Small clouds erupt: the dust, like ghosts, comes out.
Your home’s as silent as her grave, and colder.

Today, facing the faces asking why?
She was so young… and worse, are you okay?
You pray, again, for God to let you die,
not face the faces, all but hers, today.