Every morning I wake
with blood on my pillow
and the taste of fresh blood
like iron against my tongue.

They say my gums are inflamed
and the bleeding will cease
at first frost—
Each morning the sun wakes me.

I think some nerve is exposed—
it is only August—
or a fine skin was peeled off
the night you were killed.

Conversations at breakfast
have the stripped truth of poems.
All day I wait
for a miraculous letter.

In fact my whole life
leans forward slightly, waiting.
Each day lurches downhill
to its red undoing.