Preserves

by Katherine Terry

Around 2:45

the refrigerator

begins to hum

and swallows the 

north end of the house

in low vibration.

Trying to sleep on her stomach,

she counts the beats

of her pulse

in her wrist.

At three a.m.,

she rolls across

his side of the bed,

picks up the receiver,

and dials.

No one will answer,

and the blunt ring continues

three, four, five times.

The sixth ring will be

cut short by his recorded voice.

Alone, in the grayscale

bedroom,

with his  two week-old

jeans tossed over the

the chair

and a grocery receipt from

the Tuesday before he died

stuck three quarters of the way

through a well-worn novel,

she lies in the curve 

his body left in

their mattress.

The phone is wet against her

against her cheek,

and his voice—

left behind—

warm and bottled

on the other line.




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