By Sylvie Epstein
The towns of the Eastern Seaboard like to call my name.
and gray plush on the passenger’s seat flashes with the passing of the pines
I have been to Somerville to look for your face painted onto brick or in the grass and in Bangor I search for you in the sky
As you sleep in bed, at home, I whisper in your ear I am the white clad arm behind pharmacy glass, I tell you
I am the clumsy fingertips bumping fingertips handing over receipts I pass packaged pills to boys in blue caps – like yours
I am the waitress in the bowling shirt serving grits on the hour I stop and search for known, dear, lopsided smiles in crowds of strange round faces
I am sorry my mind is lost in these towns, I whisper
Is Danvers calling to you, my love?
In Ellsworth—my name—in bellowing echoes…
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