The Answer – a sestina

I called you on the phone,
today.
You let the call
go to voice mail.
I dialed again —
you did not answer.

Last night, I wouldn’t answer;
you shut off your phone.
I called again
today;
I filled your voice mail
with many calls.

“Please return my call,
you’ll get an answer,”
I begged on your voice mail.
You shut off your phone,
and today,
I feel remorse again.

Why dial again?
You won’t receive my call.
Today,
or any day, you will not answer
your phone;
I only get your voice mail.

Snail mail, voice mail–
should I try again?
I worry that your phone
is out of order, and cannot take the call.
The question or the answer
are less important than finding you today.

I go to look for you today.
I’d rather see your face, than hear your voice mail.
I reach the door. Will you answer?
Or refuse to talk to me again?
I call.
You answer. I forget about the phone.

I pull you close into my arms, again.
You had not heard the answer to your call;
for in your hands, you held a broken phone.

2 thoughts on “The Answer – a sestina

Comments are closed.