98poems/voile

Especially in spring
I miss the dream,
not the thought
that he might call
because he wouldn’t have,
but the wordless hunger
that followed me everywhere,
to the post office,
the store –
in every small action
and purchase –
some silent place that
hoped, perhaps, this color
would make it all different,
would be the key that would
open the life, like a moldy
suitcase with a rusted lock
left in the attic before
you were born –
inside the voile dresses,
wrapped in lavender,
with delicate tucks
and ribbon roses,
all fit you to a T.

4/14/98