After You’ve Been Gone a Long Time by Blas Falconer
There are no rubies here, but saying so brings one to mind. And they aren’t petals as much as one furled bud with a very long stem.
Ants take everything away, little by little, before you know.
You came home briefly, for instance, and I was asleep, so it was as though you hadn’t come at all, but something was missing.
More time, I thought, might be like more water and make it taste less bitter, but only made it more to drink.
Sometimes, I can’t bear waiting. If you were here, you’d see what I mean, someone staring off all the time.
Once, when I fell, my mother gasped, which only made me cry louder, and people gathered around to see fear that looked like pain. That’s what I’m trying to say.
The neighbors mow the yard, and it sounds like a plane overhead where everything is clear.