It’s hard to explain why they caught me so often
staring out the window in tears
when we were so happy together,
when things were so correct.
Swathed in their work shirts and watching cartoons
I could’ve died in peace many times;
every time we had takeout and beer in the fridge,
every time we had Christmas and dogs.
It’s hard to explain why they asked me so often
when I stopped writing and why,
why when I should have had plenty to write
I’d no desire, had nothing to say.
Left to my peace while the men were at work
I filled it with noise that forgot
that there was always something missing,
always something gone.
It’s hard to explain what it was.