I Still Have the Tapes
He left messages while I was at work, like,
“Truly madly in love with you–” But I liked it, standing in my
tiny galley kitchen, the smell of the neighbor's roast rising,
squeezed into the corner that used to be a broom closet,
smiling at the answering machine.
I cooked then. I was vegan. I had cats.
I hid notes in his bag when he traveled.
It was easy: Meals, jokes, sleepy pantomime.
But I just couldn’t care about his guitars
so I left his mother’s cousin’s diamond on his windowsill.
Now he calls to tell me after two years of chemo
he's lacing up his old black Chucks and saying goodbye.
I scolded him for the time he made me watch
Cleveland lose the World Series.
I told him to take care.
I still have the messages, the lacy tapes
turned white climbing the wet basement wall,
his sound a powder
– Teresa Kiplinger
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