Layover

Toronto The phone rings before Dublin decides what hour it is. I don't remember if I was sober, only the rain, so thin I never felt it, and a bag I packed like a stranger. Toronto keeps me in a chair that faces no one. I don't cry. I fold it small, the way he folded everything into wires, into other people's broken things. Later, they tell me someone arranged his hands, the fingers still curved around some old yes his body kept saying without him. I think of June, the last embrace, I love you. He said it back. Whole. No correction. Some nights I want to scream through an airport and never stop. Other nights I only think: he is not alone in that house anymore.