Another poem, sorry

I don’t have anything particular to write at the moment, but read this poem last night and really liked it.  It’s also from Without by Donald Hall.

Air Shatters in the Car’s Small Room


Distracting myself

on the recliner between

Jane’s hospital bed

and window, in this blue

room where we endure,

I set syllables

into prosy lines.

William Butler Yeats

denounced with passion

“the poetry of

passive suffering.”

Friends and strangers

write letters speaking

of courage or strength.

What else could we do

except what we do?

Should we weep lying

flat?  We do.  Sometimes,

driving the Honda

with its windows closed

in beginning autumn

from the low motel

to Jane’s bed, I scream

and keep on screaming.

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I'm a young, childless widow who is trying to figure out the best way to deal with the world in light of my late husband's suicide. It's harder than I ever imagined it would be, but somehow at the same time I am still alive and even happy sometimes.

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