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I Rarely Show Up For Funerals

by belinda rimmer

The voice on the phone

is from long ago.

No crossfire, no haunting, no clumsy conversations,

he says. No niceties, no tenderness, no stolen glances,

I just want you to be there. You will come, won't you?

I tell him summer's left, and the meadow is brown

and I'm going away. I tell him

I found an old photo. Him in a tux,

me in high heeled shoes, travelling

to a friend's wedding.

Remember, I say, how we were back then –

rushing, never catching up, never touching,

and days of finding ourselves

in the middle of life. Our last goodbye –

you on the porch watching

a family of foxes ransack the bins

and I waited for the moon

to make everything better.

He says, please come.

I tell him I'll be there.

But I only mean I'll do my best.


Image by Bree Anne
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