Pantoum in Memoriam
One plane, two planes, one tower, then another.
You were at work, I was at work. We did not think to call.
Someone stuck their head in my office, you need to come downstairs.
The sky was a blotter, the sun a yellow splatter.
You were at work, I was at work. We hardly ever called each other.
A road wound between where you worked and I did, too curvy to see round the bend.
The sky was a blotter, your sun a yellow mess.
We did not know how to reach each other in that kind of morning.
A road stole the space between us, twisting, so easy to speed and skid.
I called and you picked up. We had no words. We had meager breath.
We did not know how to reach each other in our own kind of mourning.
I wanted to tell you find me; you wanted to tell me our sun hurt your eyes.
I called and you answered, but I could hear our last breath.
Someone stuck their head in my office, said one plane down, we need you downstairs.
I wanted to tell you come find me; you closed your aching yellow eyes.
One plane, two planes, one tower, then another.
Our marriage, such a small disaster.
You were at work, I was at work. We did not think to call.
Someone stuck their head in my office, you need to come downstairs.
The sky was a blotter, the sun a yellow splatter.
You were at work, I was at work. We hardly ever called each other.
A road wound between where you worked and I did, too curvy to see round the bend.
The sky was a blotter, your sun a yellow mess.
We did not know how to reach each other in that kind of morning.
A road stole the space between us, twisting, so easy to speed and skid.
I called and you picked up. We had no words. We had meager breath.
We did not know how to reach each other in our own kind of mourning.
I wanted to tell you find me; you wanted to tell me our sun hurt your eyes.
I called and you answered, but I could hear our last breath.
Someone stuck their head in my office, said one plane down, we need you downstairs.
I wanted to tell you come find me; you closed your aching yellow eyes.
One plane, two planes, one tower, then another.
Our marriage, such a small disaster.
Shuly Xóchitl Cawood is the author of several books, including the award-winning poetry collection, Trouble Can Be So Beautiful at the Beginning (Mercer University Press, 2021), and the short story collection, A Small Thing to Want (Press 53, 2020).
Art: Public Domain