Voicemail Poems

This is what you are missing Melissa – dust turned to waves in the desert – okra coming up two months too late – a forward-breaking gate opening into someone else’s field – I walk by a window and I don’t understand how little I see you – but so clearly the wasp backing out of a hole inside a long-dead tree – when we were children we lived with our grandparents and I remember without sadness mostly the sound of tires screaming into the street – the porch light welcomes whatever intercepts it – I praise insistence – I kiss my love because our best friend died when we were 5 years old – a brain tumor – and then again at 7, 11, 17…43 – bodies killing themselves by growing beyond their own capacity – I’m building a bed for our visitors – it’s infuriating how little I understand about re-joining wood already broken piece by piece – anticipate everything I hear God saying to no one – I’m still listening when you stop, for a moment, breathing in your sleep – I’m recognizable now as a part of the man who made