Antidotes for Fear of Losing Him

When I imagine him

hopelessly cold

as I go to spoon him

or gone too many hours

found clutching midnight’s

kettlebell

or the hammer dropped

just out of reach where he fell

or incomprehensibly

slouched beneath

a splattered piñon canopy

beloved calloused finger

stuck in the holy gun

I swallow tears

in my throat like medicine

imagine his ghost

next to me

in the half warm bed

spooning me spooning

the wet-necked shell of him

a nest holding a nest holding a nest

or his broad ghost back

and thick ghost biceps—

a sieve—straining to lift me

off the floor