Neither of Us Will Die of Thirst

She says,
“I’m heartbroken, but I understand. I support you.”

I tell her,
“I’m not dying—just leaving for a new job,
moving out of state.”
But we both know it is a kind of death.

For a while we’ll trade memes,
send a message here and there.
Then the conversations will thin,
shriveling into a quick heart
on a post,
a comment when we happen to have time—
between jobs and children,
husbands and doctor’s appointments.

I never meant to break her heart.
But then,
harm is rarely deliberate.

My husband never meant to kill the rabbit.
He only closed the shed door without thinking.
There was straw enough for a couple of days.
We know because of the mess we cleaned.
Thirst finished what thoughtlessness began.

I know so little about my own future,
but dying of dehydration
in a locked shed
seems unlikely.
Perhaps the years ahead
are not so terrifying after all.

Let us double-check the sheds,
leave no doors closed without care.
No more small creatures
will perish at our hands.

I remind myself:
it is only a job.
In a month,
someone she likes even better
will be sitting in my chair.
In two,
I’ll have a new work-friend,
an inside joke she won’t know.

Neither of us will die of thirst.

We’ll be okay, love.
We are not small rabbits
forgotten in the dark.
We are grown women meant to survive.