Regret

How many days did I write

then look into a mirror and see no face?

That summer the fish were cooked in milk

of the coconuts we found and ground.

The frothing liquid boiled the fish whole.

I ate the bones clean. What if

I had had the baby?

He was a good man. Regret

a heavy word. So unlike egret,

the white bird who lifts gently

out of the marsh. I once saw six

in a moss-heavy tree.

The number felt significant.

Now, I try hard to fill my head

with new images, a swirl

of yogurt under a fried egg,

a bee nuzzled deep in a gladiola,

but his long fingers always intrude.

No face—but I know it’s his fist

smashing the raw garlic

with the side of a dull knife.