Resolution

And so,
we finally fell asleep like that,
loose in each other’s arms,
exhaustion itself a ravishment,
emptied of arguing, scavenging
old ground of our history,
the long record of loving,
and loving badly.
At first light,
I woke for good,
each time I shifted,
breathing our smell
in the sheets. And I
thought back to the last
tired words you had spoken,
of that late winter midnight
you sat with the knife,
thinking only how
and where you would do it.
You did not even think
I would care.
It was your own white arms
that stopped you, the thin
curtain of skin, the pale,
raised ribbons of veins.
Innocent arms, you thought,
how can I hurt them,
the quiet in your voice
as you told me, its own
separate finality.
Now, one arm lay absent by my chest,
your face had turned away,
and there was nothing
I could do but listen
to your breath,
its soft suck, and release,
and lean into the pulse
in your throat,
like a steady step
on the solitary journey
of grieving.