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Posts Tagged ‘phone’


 
I wish I could give you the key
that opens this rusty cage of ache,
or maybe wings to carry you
not so much away from hurt
but toward some garden you
long to land in. A call to summon you
toward a night-dark meadow
wide enough to twirl in
until you fall down dizzy to stare
at the star-bright sky and remember
yourself as part of the mystery.
Would even wish you a fever to burn
away all that does not serve
so you might wake trembling and new.
Or a lens that widens and widens
and widens until your story can only
be seen as a small but essential
part of the great, vast abyss
that is everything. As it is,
I have this hour. These ears.
This heart. They feel so insufficient
when what I want is to bring you
a river that forever delivers you
on the shores of belonging.
But here. Here is my time. Here,
my attention. My love. I cannot
fix a damn thing, but I hear you.
You are not alone. I hear you.

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Today I Realize

 
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

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One Very Quiet

morning sun inclines

my heart toward forgiveness—

still the phone does not ring

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