The Night You Called Me First

You called at midnight and I picked up

because I didn't know what kind of call it was yet.

Then I knew. And I was on the kitchen floor

without remembering how I got there.

The refrigerator cycled on and off

the whole time. I could hear myself answering—

actual words, in an actual order,

the kind that move toward something—

and I had no memory of learning how to do that.

When did I become the number you called first?

Not your mother. Not the older ones

who'd done this longer, who'd know what to say

from experience. Me. Midnight.

Something real happening to you.

The phone left a red mark on my ear.

I found it in the morning and stood there

looking at it the way you look at proof

of something you weren't sure had happened.

I don't know exactly what I said.

I know I meant it.

I know the refrigerator kept running the whole two hours

and I never once thought to get up off the floor.

That's the weight of it—

not that you needed someone.

That the someone you needed was me.

And I was there. Adequate. Surprised.