It seems like when 
I try to write 
about the other parts 
of my  life, 
my brain will let me 
two, three days 
of the whole other entirety of my existence before I fall headlong back into writing about my husband that
died that time.  

I think 
the temptation you might have is 
that the two days of all Maude’s creation is 
some kind of
Vacation from agony but
No time with my love 
is a tragedy 
even just here 
in these words it is good.
It is good.
I am good.