I rarely return your calls, but this afternoon,
as I fell asleep after placing my child
in her crib, I was, again, in a foreign city
(although it looked just like D.C. when we
were almost twenty-five and twenty-eight):
even the connection on the phone was faint;
you were with friends in some other city,
and I could hear in your tone
———————————– ———–how you denied
me. And I recalled (as dreams themselves
have memories) the first time we found each other
in the Boston apartment you used to rent, how, after,
you said that the best part of what we did
would happen when I left, when you could replay
those hours, finally remember me
—————————————————-as you would want.
Finalist, the Poetry International Prize 2022