And You Weren't There

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And You Weren’t There

Walking back from class I saw 
an ambulance in a crowd ahead. 
Closer and angled right to see 
through the thick, it seemed you 
were flat alongside a truck. EMTs 
were shifting you onto a stretcher.
Of all things, the baby carrier,
empty, was on your chest. Why? 
The guy in the truck had his face 
in his hands. Students close by
somehow prayed, beseeching 
the sky, as if they knew you.

Was it this, them, that kept me 
walking to the library, where 
I was going, where I always am, 
where I escape from you, both 
of you, to work? Was I hoping 
to avoid embarrassment? What 
would be the embarrassment? 
Would it be pushing through
despite demands that people 
stay back, and pushing aside 
the prayers, only to find out
in their gaze that it wasn’t you?

Or would it be my finding out 
it really was you, and having 
my finding out be witnessed 
in public, and being expected 
to do something—cry, scream,
throw haymakers at nothing,
at the guy who ran you down—
in public, and risk being seen
as not behaving the right way 
by the public? Was I in denial
about its truth? But the carrier—
would our son have even fit?

I fought the to-the-scene tide.
I tried to call you. I called again
during my study, the two hours
I had before I was to meet you 
so we could pick up our boy
from daycare. Thinking, I guess,
that if it had been you, someone 
would have called the number 
that called twice, I lost myself 
in work. Having to finish an idea
and pee, I was a few minutes late, 
as always. And you weren’t there.

*This poem is unpublished

Painting: “Young Woman with Peonies,” by Frederic Bazille (1870)