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The night was long with pain, / by Risa Denenberg
and unfamiliar throbbing
in places where the mind goes during hours
You think you know grief, but every new wound
rouses old alarm. Alone you face that instant
when disbelief becomes dread and then certainty.
It is cancer. I’ll never see her again.
My memory is dimming. I will die
and no one will look for my body.
What made it so hard to rise, to take
some pills, to lay aside qualms that
are likely to be my fate?
I don’t know how I stumbled though
this sore night of disquiet. I must
redouble efforts at equanimity.