Regret
How many days did I write
then look into a mirror and see no face?
That summer the fish were cooked in milk
of the coconuts we found and ground.
The frothing liquid boiled the fish whole.
I ate the bones clean. What if
I had had the baby?
He was a good man. Regret
a heavy word. So unlike egret,
the white bird who lifts gently
out of the marsh. I once saw six
in a moss-heavy tree.
The number felt significant.
Now, I try hard to fill my head
with new images, a swirl
of yogurt under a fried egg,
a bee nuzzled deep in a gladiola,
but his long fingers always intrude.
No face—but I know it’s his fist
smashing the raw garlic
with the side of a dull knife.
