I do not know how
she felt, but I keep
thinking of her—
screaming out to an empty street.
I had been asleep
when I heard a voice
screaming, Help!
and frantic, when I opened my door.
I remember her shoulders
in the faded towel I found
before she put on my blue sweats
and white T-shirt. Call 911
please, she said.
When the officer arrived
I said, I found her there after the—
But she said,
No, that wasn’t what
happened.
What must be valued
I’m learning,
in clarity and in error,
are spaces
where
feelings are held.
Here—in a poem?
And elsewhere
Spaces, Jenny Johnson
