From Upstairs

I think the engineer, fitting the smart meter
in the cellar, might have wiped the answering machine
while turning off the power.

He doesn’t know, it’s where I’ve kept the best
of our journey together, like snippets of a radio play
about love in a time of cancer. That sometimes

over the years, I’ve come in from a long day
and pressed play for a new message. Then let it run on,
listened to how your voice back then had a sonar

only I could hear. The engineer in the cellar
doesn’t know about your idea of taking me to Wasbi’s
or Saigon’s for noodles in the green lace-up shoes

I never got to wear for you. Or how you’d ring
as Kohlhardt, the Ozzie surgeon –
G’day, I’m Stan from Mastectomy Designs.

In one message, I’m your bee girl again,
by the rose bush laughing, the summer I bumbled
my way between flowers. When life was lived

in the garden, in parks, the moment we could fly
from a waiting room, a chemo lounge, a doctor’s office.
The power is back on now. From downstairs

I can hear the intermittent bleep that says I need
to press reset, like the monitor on a heart
unresponsive, but still there somewhere in the room.