Every Number I Thought She Loved

February, the unit is cold,

the kind of cold that lives in concrete floors.

I've tried her birthday. Mine. The year she sold

the house. The old address. The number for

the church. Her mother's birth year. Nothing turns.

The dial clicks through and doesn't find the place

where something gives. Each wrong number burns

a little less, which might be worse. The case

sits gray and level, scuffed along the lid,

the padlock dumb and patient as a stone.

She knew this number once. She never did

write anything like this down. I'm alone

in the unit. February.

The footlocker waits.