Don’t Call

It’s better, really, that he hasn’t called. The smell of his hair, the curve of his neck, the muscles in his arms have begun to creep into my thoughts. The image of him smiling as he bends to kiss me, the sound of his moan in the dark have  struck at tender wounds I thought closed and healed.

Now, turning down the bedclothes I catch myself eyeing the distance between bed and phone, wondering if I’d make it before the machine picked up. Oh, Hell no you don’t,  I scolded myself, surprised and irritated. Goddammit, already too many red flags. The comfort of his arm around me as we left  the restaurant, the space between our bodies as we stood outside my car, the light of the moon making his eyes shine,  things that stayed with me, emerging unbidden during the day, interrupting, distracting.

Now it’s 5 days and no call and I’m wondering why? Again. Oh hell no, I repeated savagely. Yanking the  cord from the wall, I carried the phone into the livingroom, as far from my bed as I could. Call, don’t call, I’m going to bed. Alone.

Curled under my blankets, listening to branches scrape against my window and the low  moan of the wind I thought; it’s better, really, that he doesn’t call. Ever.

Snow

Snow defines the branches and trunks

of poplars and cedars

outside my window.

Snow frosts the railing of the porch.

Up the mountain space between hardwoods

is white and gray and blue.

Flakes that began as seeds of frozen rain

have bloomed soft, feathery, falling steadily

from sky the color of bone.

Insulated from the world,

I imagine people only a few miles

down the mountain struggling

to reach the promised land of the grocery store,

lining up to receive magic milk and bread.

I stare out my window,

hypnotized by the rhythm of the falling snow.