by Joshua Jones
I heard you call my name.
The wire of your voice pulled tight
through the hallway.
Expecting to find you marooned
on the commode with no
toilet paper or pads,
I found you stiff as a saint,
hands on your knees, and facing
the towel rack. You hardly
breathed. You said my name
again as though I hadn’t
appeared at all, hadn’t
rounded the corner and said
your name back. A blank
space in my memory.
Beneath it, my knees kneading
the blue plush bath mat,
my fingers dimpling your naked
thighs, your pupils gorged
like cormorants brooding
over each eye’s pale egg.
Joshua Jones received his MFA from UMass Boston and is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of North Texas. His poems and essays have appeared in Image, Southwest Review, and Salamander among other journals. He and his wife wrangle dachshunds in Frisco, TX.