Oct/Nov 2014 Poetry |
Artwork by Susan Klebanoff
Stroke
You were in ICU. I was cutting ladyfingers
on my chopping board, slicing them lengthwiseremoving their heads exactly 7955 miles away. I know
I see it on Google maps everyday. There you are—An octagon marked by a blue arrow, which I imagine
digging deep into your room, into your TV blaring blueToday it was silent when I called you
You were silent too. You were sleeping I was toldYou slept like that for ten more days
My phone did not wake you upWhen it finally did, on eleventh day
I heard your voice like waterpushing its way over jagged stones
Crackling like a telephone connection gone badA connection I am still trying to restore
after ninety-eight days, after being told I need to hurry
Umbrella
There was no umbrella. When I woke up
with a start at the sound of thunderI realized it was time to pick you up
from the bus stop. It started to pouras I rummaged around the closet
looking for umbrella, anythingto prevent you and me from getting wet
But I didn’t find it. And as I ran soaking—and terribly late—I wondered why
I had waited so long, losing precious timelooking for that umbrella your father took with him
when he moved away with his things last week.