“Memory,” by Hayden Carruth from Doctor Jazz (Copper Canyon Press).

 

Memory

A woman I used to know well died
    A week ago. Not to be mysterious:
She and I were married. I'm told
    She fell down dead on a street in
Lower Manhattan, and I suppose
    She suffered a stroke or a heart attack.
The last time I saw her was in the spring
    Of 1955, meaning forty-four
Years ago, and now when I try
    To imagine her death I see in my
Mind a good-looking, twenty-nine-
    Year-old woman sprawled on the pavement.
It does no good to go and examine
    My own ravaged face in the bathroom
Mirror; I cannot transpose my ravage-
    Ment to her. She is fixed in my mind
As she was. Brown hair, brown eyes,
    Slender and sexy, coming home
From her job as an editor in a huge
    Building in midtown. Forty-four
Years is longer than I thought. My dear,
    How could you have let this happen to you?