Joris Soeding

the six of us in a downpour
nighttime, late March
lantern remaining lit on the front steps
our guide, Eric, tells us of eight or more known séances
connecting to lost sons
seventeen years in this home—best of your life
laughs for hours in the kitchen and parlor
light on your five-foot-two silhouette
outline witnessed on a shade right of the door
I glance to find you
nearly 200 years after your prologue
forty minutes of tales we rid our umbrellas
questions, wows, tisks
no one else on these cobblestones
across South 8th Street a light flickers above the door 
Blake and Victoria pose for a photograph
frightened from a thump in the living room
yet you do not show yourself
rather admire the children from a distance

we talk of alcohol
taking classes at our age
our kids as toddlers
collecting too many things
you’re seated on the table
without students for a day
just us for awhile
until other grownups want to share getaways
their winter high points
I would prefer to leave my blue chair
arrive to your table
in a rare silence
my hand to your cheek
inform that I’m here
without a word
you grasp my hand
peer as I stand closer to you
without surprise
across pull-down maps and hum of the heater
sun descending on other side of the park
leave the door closed
we can wish for each other