You can speak her name
as many times as you like
but she will not hear you.
It does not matter if you send it through
the telephone wires that she has cut
with the same scissors that cut your hands
as you reached for her
It does not matter if you sing it out
to the tunes she hummed into your neck
in the space between sleep and waking
She is awake now.
She will not hear you.
It is hard to believe
as you count each time you licked her wounds
and every late night phone call becomes a penny
until the jars of them line all the windowsills in
all the houses you have lived in;
it is hard to believe
that all this will not buy her back
I know how it hurts
How the end of each limb itches and aches
with the phantom of her
but she is not a metaphor for eternity
and time will erode you the way wind shapes mountains,
the way water shapes driftwood;
all the sharpness smoothed away.