I Die Each Time

This is a magnificent poem by Richard Blanco.  He read it aloud on National Public Radio's Fresh Air a bit ago; Herself's Beloved Husband heard it and told her about it. She found the poem online. It is exactly the way it is.  (She would extend its reach beyond the telephone to all forms of electronic communication, and to all of those she loves when they are incommunicado.)

It is perfect.
____

Killing Mark

His plane went down over Los Angeles
last week (again), or was it Long Island?
Boxer shorts, hair gel, his toothbrush
washed up on the shore of New Haven,
but his body never recovered, I feared.

Monday, he cut off his leg chain sawing—
bled to death slowly while I was shopping
for a new lamp, never heard my messages
on his cell phone: Where are you? Call me!
I told him to be careful. He never listens.

Tonight, fifteen minutes late, I’m sure
he’s hit a moose on Route 26, but maybe
he survived, someone from the hospital
will call me, give me his room number.
I’ll bring his pajamas, some magazines.

5:25: still no phone call, voice mail full.
I turn on the news, wait for the report:
flashes of moose blood, his car mangled,
as I buzz around the bedroom dusting
the furniture, sorting the sock drawer

one more time.

Did someone knock? I’m expecting
the sheriff by six o’clock. Mr. Blanco,
I’m afraid . . . he’ll say, hand me a Ziploc
with his wallet, sunglasses, wristwatch.
I’ll invite him in, make some coffee.

6:25: I’ll have to call his mother, explain,
arrange to fly the body back home. Do I have
enough garbage bags for his clothes?
I should keep his ties — but his shoes? They do fit me. 

Order flowers — what were his favorite, red or white?

By seven-thirty I’m taking mental notes
for his eulogy, suddenly adoring all
I’ve hated, ten years’ worth of nose hairs
in the sink, of lost car keys, of chewing
too loudly and hogging the bedsheets,

when suddenly Joey our dog yowls, ears to the sound
of footsteps up the drive, and darts
to the doorway. I follow with a scowl:
Where the hell were you? Couldn’t call?

Translation: I die each time I kill you.

You can hear the author read his magnificent work, here:  

http://youtu.be/9VZT0oZAXlY