The Lifespan of a Wren
Seven years, give or take,
in her best medical opinion,
after the diagnosis—the nurse’s name was Nell.
She explained what the doctor would not–
could not–the timeline.
So I called it my death knell,
after her, which made my husband cry.
He does that. Soon, I stopped…
I just stopped. And started again,
saying, “Guess what, bitches?
Seven good years
is better than any number of bad ones.”
I lived a lifetime when he smiled, coughed,
called for me, broke a glass
or plate, his unapologetic face
the most beautiful thing
I’ve seen. Please, God,
just a second more?