waiting for you to call is like my twice daily visits to the gym
running in an endless straight-line that always leaves me standing in the same place

Into his answering machine. 6:30pm PST.

“At Grand Central Station, I think of you dancing
under that constellation ceiling, spinning across the marble towards
the last train home. I see so many reddish beards and think each time
that you’ve chased my train with your car, buckle first with relief
and then under the retraction of relief. All of our mistakes – innumerable
as stars. We thought I worshiped you in the pity church. And
in the hospital, holding the drinking straw to your lips, doubtlessly
I loved you. Tenderly. But not nearly so much as these last years
Of your telephone songs, of my breath caught in the receiver, the receiver
On the floor – your heroic love singing towards me. How sad for us
That I have made a myth of us when what keeps me from sleeping
Is the memory of leaning against you in the bath,
The bar of almond soap in your hands. Or that last morning,
In the quiet between the train’s whistle. Your honest back
Turned, waiting for me to walk away from you.”
-- excerpt from “She Attempts the Last Word,” Eireann Corrigan