Call

by Denise McSheehy

The middle of the night and the phone rings.
Nothing.

But someone is there.
We listen to each other

in the dark and quiet we listen
there is between us not even breathing.

Yet I know
the moment I’m released

what could be said
will not now be said.

A click;
the neutral purr

and I wonder who was out there
at five in the morning

who’d listened unknown as I had listened
listened to my silence –

then quietly gone, cut off
blipped out into the black.