--for Rosalee

 

It takes.

 

It takes her.

It takes you.

 

It takes us all.

 

We wanted another . . . what?

We don’t even know.

The words come out,

from somewhere:

another meal.

another pair of shoes.

another husband.

another moment with Cervantes.

 

An other life.

 

Worse when it lingers

there, in the doorway,

tearing our eyes away

from the window full of light.

 

Worst of all when it can’t get in,

busy signing papers

at the dispatcher’s desk.

By then we don’t want anything

except to leave.

 

It takes.

It takes us all.

 

It takes us all

to give enough to fill

the hole it leaves.

 

Will we ever be done giving?

 

Would we want to be?