You smell of forgotten woollens
stuffed in old closets, five rounds
of radioiodine nearly scrubbing out
your inherent talcum scent,
no more than a whiff of a life that was.
I whisper-shout toward rows
of sterile doors, visits from
three feet apart (prison or recovery),
hoping my voice breaches the right threshold that might anchor your restless being.
It used to be easy: I called, you answered. No week, hour, second, ill-timed.
Not when cell signals faltered or breaths faded. Not as rooms shifted from bungalows
to rentals to recovery and the walls pressed in. Hell, you could’ve answered from the moon, the family used to joke.
Back in your room,
An unfamiliar smell of late July heat
and fresh-cut grass lingers.
I bolt the windows shut for the mustiness to return, call your little black mobile, lying still
on the table by the bed, check the bars – feel the tremble of unanswered ringing.
Final Call
