I can still call your phone
and hear your voice mail.
And so I do, I call it,
and the low tones
of your familiar voice
reach all the way in
and squeeze my lungs.
This is you know who.
We are you know where.
Leave your you know what
you know when.
I hang up at the beep,
and then I’m gasping,
choking, making sounds
I don’t recognize.
And then the house is quiet.
The ache is like a time lapse
of a rose in bloom—
first clenched, then
opening and opening
and impossibly opening,
then fading, then dropping away.
Every day a new bouquet
of ways I miss you.
Today, I miss the deep
song of your voice
how it opens in me
fragrant, like home.
*
this poem has been published in ONE ART
I’ve done this. Until recently I had an answering machine that used a cassette tape. After my dad died, I played one of the messages he left, over and over, to hear his voice. To evoke his presence. There’s a sharp difference between what memory hears and what your ears and heart do.
It is, indeed, a tight hard ache that slowly unfurls and expands and eventually dissipates, forever lingering in the breathable air.
Aye, hermana, I know this one.
Yes, and so I am with you on this one.
Yes, and so many others are with you as well.
Yes, and so know you are not alone.
Such a beautiful response, dear Eduardo. I am grateful to be traveling this path with you.
So many bouquets of ways to miss him, so many blossoms. xoxo
all of it–and it’s strange how quickly sometimes it can happen–from nothing to something to full bloom to gone.
Lovely, dark and deep (as Frost would say). But like him you keep your promise to that creative spark in you that lights the way—that finds light even in grief. I so admire your strength….
Thank you dear Joe–the light keeps finding me.
I really felt this poem. Every day a new bouquet of ways you miss him. Sigh.
Every. Day.
The voice – more than photos – triggers a temporary spinning to find the source – a sense of proximity! Your poem is beautiful.
Thank you, Jazz–yeah, the voice. So intense.
So beautiful. This poem, like the rose in it, is opening and opening and impossibly opening.
Thank you for finding the rose in the poem–I feel it every day, how these blooms open then fade.