On a March morning
 
my friend tells me her husband
 
has three months to live.

 
 
 

As July winds down,
 
the husband of a friend dies
 
unexpectedly.

 
 
 

In a withered field,
 
a withered husband and wife
 
call their missing cat.

War

 
 
 

at the next table
 
a husband and wife at war
 
staring at their phones

Shoulder

 
 
 

her husband’s shoulder—
 
something in the way it tilts
 
kindling her desire

Scar

 
 
 

her husband’s shoulder—
 
tracing the white scar’s outline
 
with her brown finger

Wine

 
 

her dead husband’s name
 
no comfort to the widow—
 
one more glass of wine