Wrong Number
Jolted from sleep, I lunge for the receiver.
Nancy! Nancy! Karen’s dead. What should I do?
What should I do? Tell him my name is Diana,
that he’s dialed the wrong number? I hang up
and now, some thirty years later, wonder:
Did I remember to say Sorry?
Today, when the phone rings late at night,
I think of this woman I never knew—but
end up remembering Anne instead, how she
dyed her hair blue—to match her eyes—
dated a bullfighter, danced barefoot
in the rain, dead at twenty-one—A suicide?
Perhaps. And how important it’s become to hoard
her memories. She mastered mirror writing,
cheated at solitaire, had a powerful handshake,
smelled like vanilla, wheezed when nervous,
and, when we crossed the street, always held my hand.
