of course.

This is the problem with cell phones
of course

They’re incompatible with passion.

Tortured whispers from the hallway
fail to transmit

The ear meant to receive
the hurried promise
of a kiss
remains cold

And this wail
My friend
Your wail

All distortion your cries funnel
through the phone
details scatter like beads broken
are lost in floorboards, beneath furniture

If I am to hear you I must tell you
Drop your voice
Go slow
Map out for me the betrayal
The discovery
Tell me again how you wonder
About your marriage
And if it is destroyed.

But I don’t.

I let the distortion drown me like a torrent
I try to catch the words
But like salt water they swallow me

(Lean your body against mine. I will try to sponge the grief that soaks through your skin but I know, I have been here, I know that the chemistry of grief will not permit osmosis. This is your child and I am here to catch her in my arms and bring her back to you. I am here to ask you, when the pain has ebbed after some time, many years maybe, and we stare at this strange creature, her weight heavy on your chest, I am here to ask you: How will you go on from here?)