For Tanya, Whose Fate Remains Unknown
The old woman who keeps calling me,
who leaves increasingly frantic voice mails
until she finally catches me climbing
the snowy steps to my apartment,
has bad news about my daughter, Tanya.
When I tell her I have no daughter,
she reads back my cell number as though
to ask if I meant that figuratively,
like Tanya could ever wrong me
enough that I’d revoke her surname.
The old woman’s southern drawl
plays at double-rpm. I imagine Tanya
holding a bloody bath towel to one side,
her face frightfully pale as she tries
to recall her dad’s work number.
What seeps between Tanya’s fingers
if not memories of swim lessons,
of sweat that smelled like sauerkraut
as her father fussed in the guts of her car,
meticulously changing the fluids?
We humans have so few worthwhile
inventions—like vegetarianism,
whether you practice or not. Like driving
to where she lies, tethered to a drip
pole, quaking like a small animal.
But no, I say, I’m sorry, and forget
even to wish them luck before I hang up.
Outside, it starts to snow. My cat
mews and paws at the window, trying
to catch each flake before it melts.
