there is no word for it, no noun to name the ‘person, place, or thing’ lessened by the loss of just one day; not ‘widower’ or ‘widow’ to claim this empty space, the wind gone from the tree, bird sprung from branch; the flesh embezzled from the word to no more dwell among us, sit across the table, on the couch, footprints in the yard sacrificed for memory, an endless echo now, north star of what might have been, what was, what will never be again; this babble of the unsaid words; something in her eyes forever changed by smile never to be seen, the ears for want of voice, hands now less for loss of just one touch, this failure of the language one more time as at sunrise, sunset, the scent of rain through screens at night in spring, this silence now in grass along the hillside of these rows of polished stones
John P. (Jack) Kristofco's poetry and short stories have appeared in about two hundred publications, including: Rattle, Cimarron Review, Slant, and Foliate Oak. He has published three poetry collections and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times.
