when you went in

By: David Cazden

At first they wouldn't let me visit,

thinking I could be the problem.

On the third day they led me

to a private meeting room.

A nurse sat nearby,

eavesdropping with a notepad.

I noticed you finally slept,

so we gathered up

the thinnest threads of conversation

couples sometimes keep

within their hands—

She watched us weave

broken things together,

as if she somehow knew

about unfamiliar beds,

jarring medications,

the stroll to group

therapy where I promised

not to let things get this way again—

and though my words

had no more weight

than window light,

the room brightened anyway.

I picked you up next day,

clothes and toothbrush packed.

Discharged at 8 a.m.,

threads of early mist

wound around our car

as we drove away,

dragging tin cans

of newly wedded morning light

through the roadside shadows,

clattering and flashing

on the short drive home. 

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David Cazden's work has appeared in The New Republic, The McNeese Review, Passages North, Rattle, Crab Creek Review and elsewhere. He was the poetry editor for the magazine, Miller's Pond, for five years. His new book, New stars and constellations, is published by bainbridge island press. David lives in Danville, Kentucky.

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