Evening Voices
Mothers call the names
of their children
into the late evening.
Their hard voices echo
in the streets.
We sit on the edge
of the bed after sex,
in the silence
within the silence.
Happy words rush to my lips
but turn back swiftly.
I wish for the past, the days
we lived together and loved.
Remember hours spent wading in
the calm lake? The day you read
forever in my palm? You say
nothing exists beyond our
own breathing in this room,
but I know there is a chest of drawers,
a bureau and lamp, comfort
in the stillness cooled
by dusk's final breaths.
We are startled to hear your name
drift through the window,
some woman calling her son home
for dinner. Your body reacts:
the head lifts, the neck stretches
like that of some frightened bird.
Should you go to her — as if
the voice were your own mother shouting
through years of grief? Quickly
you pull me back onto the dirty sheets,
deep into the rage
of your lips and hands and tongue.