Hanging On

In my left ear an underwater orchestra
plays a low-fi Romeo and Juliet.

I am hanging on at the station,
Tchaikovsky on hold, my eyes squinting

at a flickering board of delays
and cancellations, both lover and traveller.

Absence is a thing you can hear.
I could press stop, but it lacks romance.

I want to hang up, have the satisfaction
of the receiver’s bold crash.

Instead I am drowning in violins.
I miss the letting go and the breathing out,

the slam of bells understood as goodbye.

Maria Taylor

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