I again am having cailleach memory issues - though this poem is less old than some of the others. I think when I wrote this I had been reflecting on how vulnerable we are made by our tightly coupled forms of communication. Where letters used to form the bulk of connection, capable of hiding much deceit, now video calls whether on phone, tablet or laptop, leave one exposed. One cannot hide even basic things - like it's 3:00 p.m. and you are not yet showered. And emotions - those too are more difficult to contain when the expectation is maximum visibility.
I hear his voice,
barely a sound behind me,
though I know it is not there.
Grief erupts, tears exploding outward
from the shifting chambers of my heart.
The head's denial of loss
become a pyroclast moment,
of realization, of attachment, of love.
Surging outward at speeds beyond light.
There is barely time.
Shut it all down.
And set oneself "off-line"
before someone notices to ask -
"What is wrong?"
Fiona Mackintosh (© 2011, 2018)