SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD

. . . there have always been				
a few square feet of air					
displaced by your body,
A presence, however far 
that means order.  A sense							
of firm, even stitches
or solidly laid brick.
I have always known
my floors level
my windows squared, my locks
tight.

If you were gone
there would be a space
between days.
If you were gone
I would be an alien
in my own world,
have to learn again
the shapes of letters, the purpose
of corners, the cold
curve of an egg
cupped in my hand.
I would walk toward you
in my sleep.  Waking,
I would listen for you
and a slow anger at the silence
would curl through my veins.

Perhaps one day
I would buy a bed with
room for only one.
I would give to the children
your silver knife, your watch,
the rosary that belonged to your father.
I would learn to quilt.
I would join Great Books and the Symphony
Guild, see Europe on fast trains
with interesting strangers-
but always, I know
questions would come
I'd forgotten to ask.
I would see your face in a passing car.
I would feel a warmth on my neck
at the smooth sound of a key
in the front door lock.

		Lucille Murphy