The other end of my phone is empty
echoing your voice mail, each evening
your name is locked in time, the space
I knew I could call you mine, the days
I wasn’t asking: Where are you love,
my love, my God, where have you gone,
what have you done and who knows how
to hold you with the caress of their words
when the world splinters in the quiet? It was
me for the summer, me until the turn
into fall, the fall into quiet, the silence
queuing. Is it him, then, after all?
Come back and tell me: is it him,
after all?
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming in Vox Poetica, Your Daily Poem, Third Wednesday, and The Foundling Review. She also co-edits the publication Cahoodaloodaling with poet-in-arms Kate Hammerich.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: After, After All, All, phone, poem, poetry, Rhiannon, Rhiannon Thorne, silence, Thorne, voice mail
Melancholy Hyperbole 
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