
I heard your voice outside the closed front door
I felt no shock or worry or surprise.
But there a man whose image is a blur
Handed me a box with friendly cry.
What part of me still waits for your return?
Why don’t I know you’re gone from this your home
What knowledge must my puzzled heart still learn?
Why do I get an urge to search and roam?
If we are conversations,as I read,
Then our exchange has ended with your death
And so I am not she with whom you laid
Nor she with whom you shared a common breath.
When deprived of hearing your response
I am not the self whom I was once.






