No, he didn’t tell me but I know — my husband always
               belonged to you. Not that I mind his vision

of you working the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station.
               I’m standing here now, under the golden

dome beside thousands of faces that might see you
               carry their plate to the table — your body diffused,

your voice among other voices, trains turning
               and returning, I’m waiting. He told me

you’d be here. Look at your hands, I say to myself.

               (You were lost once in Central Park
during a sudden storm — snow swirling so white
               you couldn’t see your hands in front of you.)

It’s at times like this that I wonder. At 21, you fell and broke your neck,
               so dramatic, drunk in your bathroom. The last thing

my husband said to you, a few days earlier: You chose this.
               He had given you your first drink: Rum and Coke.

Younger sisters, he said, so problematic. He was smoking a Winston
               on his porch. Older brothers, too, but I never

had either. I was looking for my first & last & only love. And he
               was yours. So. Listen: I’ve heard there is a secret elevator

that will take me down to safety. There is one in every Grand Central
               Station. And on another continent, in the Revolution

of 1848, at the bonfire in the center of the garden, they burned chairs
               and tables and curtains and even the throne of Louis Philippe.

They say the Ruler of the World floats upon the abyss.
               I wanted to let you know that I watched over him for as long as
                              I could.

I’m waiting here to tell you that I can no longer see my hands.