Liz

I came across a photo I had made.
A loving face,
a quiet, smiling face,
a face I loved.

She is looking at me directly.
I feel the love.

A few years after the photo, she died of cancer
and in the interim had taken a lover.

It all comes back.

I was slicing a roast for dinner
and cut a finger,
deeply,
at the news she had died.

My wife had taken the call,
an ex-wife called,
just saying
I might want to know.

I slid to the floor and held my finger.
It bled. I cried.

My wife looked silently on.
She’s also ex-wife now.