turning in the dark
to sense something
close behind
or just ahead
but looking each way
only blinks and whispers
and you were no longer sure
what it was
as you worked your
invisible rosary
your hands miming actions
belonging to another world
you said you spoke to me
on the phone last night
instead you slipped in and out
of unseen places
—unless the speaking
was the rain on the water,
or a reflection of
something unmirrored by it
and now free—
today we tuned to the white noise
between the stations
as you finished threading them
there were all the actions seen
or heard
all else unfathomable
and perhaps that is the
only division
between that which is called loving
and those who are loved

©2018 David Seth Smith
For my mother.

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