Choice

Extra place set at your mind’s table
like Ezekiel’s: empty glass, clean spoon.

Hands that never pointed out the moon,
laid the baby in the Christmas stable,

dried dishes. Voice that doesn’t call
downstairs that he or she will be there

soon. In steam behind a bathroom door,
no one puts on makeup, leaves a towel

for you to find. No hairdryer.
No C in French. No midnight curfew,

no slamming door, no not“speaking“to.
When was it you began to hear

silence? They don’t tell you
about that voice, clear, insistent, steady

as a heartbeat, asking, How weren’t you ready?

Sally Thomas