Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
Halfway through the Relationship I’m Leaving Ars longa, vita brevis—Hippocrates by Nadine Lockhart You write me endless emails during workdays. If I reply, you reply, “Buried. Get back to work.” If I don’t, you’re looking around again, Those Internet dating sites where we met When we were both alone, dead almost, When you said, “I have no life,” and I Turned that around, suddenly Parking at the bottom of your drive, Gone an hour out of my way. Was going home, to another state, car Overheating, take the sixty-minute detour anyway, You meet me in the middle of summer, Grab the handles of my luggage, carry them The steep grade, “I’m not sure I’m staying.” I follow, though. Forgot to notice if there were clouds— Only that it was dusk, and the apartment, Three flights up. A good omen. Ascension. But you’re strange, and pale. And I was Disappointed in your looks, the mouth area, The jaw. Something there, or perhaps, Not there. The ends of your fingers . . . Spatulate. The good: Your hair, a thinning Gray I mistake for blond, and I say, silently, “Don’t put a face on it, like you always do.” And by morning, I’m there three days, trusting Everything like a poet living in the symbolic. I tell myself, “Give it a change, give it a chance.” And I do. A fat chance . . . I’m still me. You call all your friends to find me A place of my own, once a room comes through, You ask me to stay, live with you. I notice No pictures on the walls, no pictures on the walls And a peculiar, required silence when we eat.