BY SANDRA HILL
It started with no introduction, no title.
No Dear – my Grandma called me that –
no Darling, no Sweetheart, no Babe,
for these are among the names
I have called others before you.
No Beloved either,
for this is my name for God.
It started as my writing to you always does,
as if we have only momentarily
like a small lapse in concentration.
As if the Atlantic between us,
were merely a physical thing.
As if I could hold your gaze,
the way you hold my heart.