Delayed

I opened my mouth in the receiving line

and nothing came out. I closed it.

Everyone was doing it—saying the right things,

the necessary things, the things

that sound like grief but sound like words,

like anyone could say them,

like it didn't have to be me.

But I had nothing. I had empty mouth,

empty hands, empty space

where something should have been.

A week later, washing dishes,

the perfect thing arrives. It's so obvious,

so exactly what I should have said,

so exactly what would have made him laugh—

and I'm standing there

with soap up to my elbows,

and he's been dead a week,

and the joke comes now,

when he's not here to hear it.

I could text it to someone.

It would look insane.

It would look like I'm still trying

to have a conversation

with someone who can't answer.

So I don't. I keep washing.

The water gets cold.

I keep washing anyway,

holding the words

I should have said

in my mouth where they do

absolutely no good,

like a stone,

like a secret,

like the one thing

I'm not allowed to take back.