Call

She would call out
For him. A low wail
Building in crescendo
And crashing through
The night and my slumber.

Between moans and groans,
She would call his name
And he never answered
Her call. He was never
There to answer her call.

As I lay awake,
I would imagine her calls
Were limbs, hands stretching
Out through the here and now
To a plane where no one
Ever returns.

Her arms extending
Through the shallow
Night, trying to embrace
A spirit that is
Lost to her forever.

Before, I would run to
Her bedside, wipe away
The sweat from her brow,
Wrap my arms around her
Only to have her push me away.

I was not him and
She wanted him not
A poor substitute.
Before, by heart would
Break.

My heart would crash
To the floor and I
Would run for the broom
And dust pan to sweep it up
Before returning to my room.

I would want her
To want me as much
As she wanted him,
Want me not as her
Nursemaid, her care taker,
But want me for me.

I had accepted the fact
That she would always call
For him in the deepest
Of her slumber, because
I knew in the stark sunlight,
It was me she would call.


Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #210

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