Still Life

A woman lies on her back on asphalt,
sees a tunnel and pouring from it,
light as white and comforting as milk.
A medic has cut her blouse and she
grows interested in that; in her broken body,
the fuss they make to fix it.
She senses the odd sprawl of her legs,
knows walking will now be something
to remember. Near the tunnel, a figure
beckons. Someone so long gone and familiar
she can almost taste the name on her tongue.
But she has children, a daughter curled
on a couch with a novel, a son bending
toward the light of an open fridge.
Beside him, a phone on the granite counter.
Still quiet, still waiting to ring.