Sundown, yellow moon,
I replay the past.
I remember every scene by heart,
they all went by so fast.
When Dylan sings this I remember
everything all at once:
the earth and
all the planets,
every star, far
and farther, the coins and buttons
caught in the hem of a coat's lining,
doorknobs and Ferris wheels,
iris, pupil,
cornea, fist,
every cell
of your body, whirlpools, apples,
cartwheels, hesitation
at the amber light, the ratio
of subatomic particles to a grain
of sand, balls of yarn
raveling, the glyph
for zero, a missed stitch,
a hole in the ice framing
tiny bubbles that burst on the surface—
three tiny gasps—the eclipse
viewed from a colander—shadow
of a shadow—the perimeter
of my drinking glass, the last drop
of water, your open mouth,
dits—not dashes—ellipsis.
I remember we've been breaking
up for nearly 40 years. I remember
how normal it is not to hear your voice
for years at a time. I remember
my marriage and divorce and two
kids and none of it involves you. You leave me
a voicemail and I remember not
being that surprised by the sound of your voice,
after three years, saying Thank you for loving me.
The survival rate for your type of cancer depends
on the rate of metastasis and other unknown
variables, but we know
you've been allotted some portion
of the next five years. I remember
we've been fighting
on and off for 40 years
and now I suppose we'll fight into
the breach. What I always forget
is that loving you
is not the same as being loved.
I remember that you're dying, and even
that I am, too, so now when we stop talking
I text you Morse Code. Dot, dot dot.
Whatever you want
that's what it means.
I can text you forever, babe. If ellipsis
means omission, then my dots mean
everything,
forever and
ever, on and on
and on we go.
The world breaks down into glyphs and gasps,
sundown, yellow moon,
shadows and amber light,
pixel by pixel.
Absence—and whatever's at hand
to fill it—is round and full, like plenty,
and so fucking meager, less even
than a speck.
