Tonight, we spoke on the phone. We’d both
Gotten flu shots and were waiting to
See if we were going to feel sick.
Some years, you’d sleep for ten hours straight.
Others, nothing would happen. Tonight,
I’ll go to bed early, listen to
Leaves falling on the roof, the dog in
The hallway outside my door, stretching,
Then moving to the sofa, where he’ll
Spend the rest of the night, unless he
Hears a cat or an opossum on
The back fence. If you were here, he might
Stay outside the door all night, just to
Listen to your breathing, and mine too.
I told you I made soup for dinner,
Lentils, chicken, potatoes, onions,
Garlic, ginger, and curry powder—
It was thick, yellow from the curry.
I wished for you, imagined how you’d
Sit next to me and say how good it
Was, how we’d share some wine and slices
Of bread I baked yesterday. I’d look
At you and say, “Mi bella,” and you’d
Reply, “¿Por qué?”—your cheeks flushed from soup,
Your hair grown out down to your shoulders.
These are difficult years. No one comes
To the US for asylum now.
Your work as a translator has stopped.
We economize where we can, still
Insisting on good coffee, fruit, and
Yogurt in the morning. A friend in
Spain wants poems from us both about
Silence, and we’ll send them even though
Our whole lives are full of talking and
Listening, reading poems out loud,
Joking about unpredictable
English vowels and my problems with
Spanish diphthongs. Tomorrow, when you’re
Sitting here next to me, I’ll take your
Hand and say how happy it makes me
To wait for you in that parking lot
At the train station, thinking of all
The things we’ve wanted to talk about
And how impossible it is for
You or me to write about silence.
Published in Sheila-Na-Gig Inc, The Poets: Volume 10.3, Spring 2026.
