box of jars

Alison Palmer

in memory of RVN

On This Occasion
I once wrote, "a tumble of," and while I wasn't
		thinking of you then, I am now; you're alive
during this half-lit hour, some gathering
										beneath where they say
				you are—it's something I only wish
to believe in, but by now I predict rain.


Often, I am the kind of person 
						who talks to pictures, to 
		yours, and I mean no harm when I tell others
				how you won't talk back; there are
trap doors in my apartment, and I think, maybe you're hiding there.


If I told you I miss 
				how your voice pitched higher
		when you called to tell me: I look
						forward to you coming home, I'm
waiting for you to come home—if I told you that,
would you whisper
			through the silence that has begun
											to rest here.