Absent Of

by Eleanor Lerman

This is what’s left: a purple couch,
a sleeping dog. A meal to be eaten
under a flaring sun, dying in red wrapping
And this particular piece of writing,
being written in absentia

Absent of:  well, let me see—
absent of you, certainly
Absent of you. Of us, really,
pretty girls in boots and bangles,
burning incense in rented room
Absent of certain days and nights,
but also their corrosion. And of what
went with you when you fled the fire

Such as the memory of: a movie set
where we lived when we thought life was
a movie. The sound of a harpsichord,
which we built when we were the women
who worked for a workman’s salary
Who ate marzipan for lunch. More dogs,
friendly and playful. Beautiful men,
fresh spring days, music in the park

And now: just a moment, let me
turn on the radio. It used to
broadcast messages which,
absent of any more interruptions
(yes love, in thy languid hours),
are just beginning to come through