Your Abrupt Departure
Cooled candle wax.
Pile of burnt matches, whiff of sulfur.
Salt lacing the plate,
cork wedged in the neck you would
absently rub. Your door
key found near the front door whose
knob would shiver
at your touch. Dawn light stretches
heel to toe, yawning.
Indented throw pillow waiting it out.
You don’t say
you’re sorry. You call
to say you’re sorry you didn’t call.
Your idea of sorry
is to call and remain silent,
exhaling into the phone.
You’re sorry,
you now admit, that you didn’t
speak on the first four tries.
I counted six
but perhaps others dialed. Others
weary of words?
This gives me pause.
It was a misstep when I
accepted your exhale by inhaling,
a form of buddy breathing. Only
we aren’t buddies. I hope
you quit. Calling.
Exhaling. Believing I will breathe.
I am holding my breath.
Margo Davis has been awarded ten writing residencies, the more recent in
Southern Portugal, Budapest, and Italy. A three-time Pushcart nominee, her poems
have appeared in Equinox Biannual Journal, Lamar Press anthologies, Verse Daily, The
Ekphrastic Review and Panoply. Her chapbook Quicksilver is available on Amazon.
Originally from Louisiana, Margo lives in Houston.
