He calls at three a.m. and reads one of my poems
over the answering machine, says, “I like that one,” before
hanging up, and I’m left, sitting on the floor, arms around my knees
wondering what would happen if I had picked up the phone.
In the other room, the father of the child inside me
groans in his sleep, calls out to someone in the dark
probably not me. I don’t know why I’m still here, why

I don’t answer the phone calls of this man who says
he needs me, says we belong together, says
it could work. I imagine myself showing up on his doorstep
a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat and flowered dress
belly swollen with the baby I can’t bear not to keep
everything I own shoved into a suitcase too heavy
for someone in my condition to carry. I imagine his face

when he realizes that I mean to stay,
that he has to let me stay because
there’s no where else I can go.