In a downward view of the four of us,
Each body would have become
An arm on a separate compass,
Our feet all toward the central stairs,
Unlit, but still some pale light wobbled
On the walls of that aquarium
Of sleep, in that museum-cold,
Quiet house. I fumbled for the thermostat,
Found instead the splay-legged chairs,
Poured some milk, and sat
Next to where you must have been
Not half an hour before –
I found your cup by the sink when
I was rinsing mine;
If we’d met there, we couldn’t have said more
Than those glasses on the counter like a sign,
Like votives with the wicks burned through:
As she left, someday so will you.
From your bed, you probably heard
The bolt you’d turned, turning again
As I re-closed the blinds and checked the lock
For no good reason – nothing wanted in,
Not the pod of clouds in the waves
Of breeze, not the bushes flocked
White with frost, gathered
By the door. I turned the heat up, although I knew
You’d been up to turn it down –
Was it just something to do, one of the ways
You made your own thin current?
I was anxious to catch up with you,
To sleep, to shed what dragged me then.
Around, inside, I felt the darkness
Thicken, and I drank it in. I could have drowned
In our own element,
But felt instead the mattress
Curving to my shape. Clock needles spun
North and south again;
I watched the changing glow
On the ceiling of a night indoors.
It passed; magenta slid from sky to wall,
Then morning washed my room in yellow,
I pushed out as from a shore
Through the doorway that shone
White as flame around a wick
And came down
Because I thought I heard your call;
I thought I heard low music.

This poem was shortlisted for the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award in 2021. Find out more details and how to enter your poems.