On a rain slicked night
cold as the grave
my husband holds my chilled hand.
He holds it though his fingers
cannot grip without aching;
he holds it as we cross the avenue
splashing through puddles;
he holds it as we hurry up Broadway
in wind gusts after a dinner party.
My husband’s hand radiates warmth
into my numb fingers,
and reassurance
that he will always hold me,
even though I say, I want you
to outlive me
so you can find a happier wife,
one who doesn’t stay in bed
to avoid going out in daylight.
He says, no talk like this,
not allowed,
and even as he holds my hand
he doesn’t speak of his pain
just lifts up our hands to ease it.
