Empty Encounter
It was strange being there alone--
Sunday morning, the coffee shop, our table
beside the window. Outside, rain spilled
down windshields, splayed onto pavement.
And your black Corolla. I knew it by
your license plate, the letters DEL—a collection
of letters I can’t forget, forged into me from
the acronym game, our drive to Minneapolis.
Drink Each Libation, I said. You took a sip
of water, then said, Dust Every Lamp. I smiled,
thought for a moment, said, Don’t Ever Leave.
Your car door opened across the parking lot,
and you stood, pulled up the hood of your
ash gray jacket, shielded the rain that slid down
its crevices, streams that meet and part again,
all the way down to your white-washed jeans,
crinkled like discarded paper. You walked toward
the door, hands in pockets, head tilted, eyes
lowered like the last time I saw you—that day
you came with my pink blanket, old sweatshirt,
a case for contact lenses. You stood at the bottom
of my front steps, but I couldn’t look at you--
looked down the street instead. A dog, a tree,
a woman mowing her lawn. I’m sorry, you said.
I still love you. I cleared my throat, made room for
the words, That’s really hard to believe right now.
I took a sip of coffee, watched you come closer,
watched you near the window. And I think
you felt my eyes because yours met mine, greener
than ever, like lush foliage brought to life by rain.
At first, I didn’t look away. I thought you
couldn’t see me—thought the glass protected
me from you, you from me. But your green eyes
lost their color, and everything was still,
except for your lips—an abbreviated smile as
you saw me through the window, our table,
the empty chair you used to fill.
Sunday morning, the coffee shop, our table
beside the window. Outside, rain spilled
down windshields, splayed onto pavement.
And your black Corolla. I knew it by
your license plate, the letters DEL—a collection
of letters I can’t forget, forged into me from
the acronym game, our drive to Minneapolis.
Drink Each Libation, I said. You took a sip
of water, then said, Dust Every Lamp. I smiled,
thought for a moment, said, Don’t Ever Leave.
Your car door opened across the parking lot,
and you stood, pulled up the hood of your
ash gray jacket, shielded the rain that slid down
its crevices, streams that meet and part again,
all the way down to your white-washed jeans,
crinkled like discarded paper. You walked toward
the door, hands in pockets, head tilted, eyes
lowered like the last time I saw you—that day
you came with my pink blanket, old sweatshirt,
a case for contact lenses. You stood at the bottom
of my front steps, but I couldn’t look at you--
looked down the street instead. A dog, a tree,
a woman mowing her lawn. I’m sorry, you said.
I still love you. I cleared my throat, made room for
the words, That’s really hard to believe right now.
I took a sip of coffee, watched you come closer,
watched you near the window. And I think
you felt my eyes because yours met mine, greener
than ever, like lush foliage brought to life by rain.
At first, I didn’t look away. I thought you
couldn’t see me—thought the glass protected
me from you, you from me. But your green eyes
lost their color, and everything was still,
except for your lips—an abbreviated smile as
you saw me through the window, our table,
the empty chair you used to fill.
Biography
Ellen Rethwisch is a senior English-writing major at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN. In addition to Zaum, she has had poems published in Words Apart Magazine, 30N, andMangrove Literary Journal. Ellen also serves as an editor for Concordia's literary journal and writes for Odyssey, an online publication.
Ellen Rethwisch is a senior English-writing major at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN. In addition to Zaum, she has had poems published in Words Apart Magazine, 30N, andMangrove Literary Journal. Ellen also serves as an editor for Concordia's literary journal and writes for Odyssey, an online publication.