By the time I know I love you,
I have lived a decade

with one-foot out
      found a therapist
      looked at apartments 
      hoped your plane would crash
      spoken to a priest
      emptied one closet
      seen a lawyer 
and one-foot in.

I roll through the days,
heavy with a second girl,
when they take a Christmas Eve 
biopsy from the side of your neck.

By the time our Valentine child
tears into the delivery room,
all elbows and knees and afterbirth,

I am telling jokes.
If he dies, I’ll need another bearded man who can cook.
We’ll plan an after-chemo party, friends in bathing caps.
I’ll make a bald-headed cake.
I crack the air, can’t catch my breath, from all of the laughing.

The headache is terminal.

Alone in my hospital room, 
the nurse finds me cleaning up the blood 
from my own hemorrhage.

At home in our own bed,

I wake before dawn to
      the sound of the cat licking tears from my pillow
      the soft burp of a last baby at my breast
      the smooth touch of your leg against my calf
      your profile in the dark, cold in your coffin
For a moment, I am stilled
by the sound of your breath.