I left a voicemail for a friend – only to find out he was dead

Poet and artist Frieda Hughes reflects on the nature of phones messages that the intended recipient will never hear

VOICEMAIL

Voicemail is the imaginary container

Into which you post your hopes and dreams

And your wishes for next week, or their birthday,

Hoping friends will hear you at the other end, in between

Ski-ing, snorkelling, packing up the house for sale,

Or lying in bed with a lover you’ve never met.

And sometimes they’re dead.

My friend had messaged me for a meeting,

Maybe with food, and I’d prevaricated,

Lost in a world without windows or doors

In the furthest recesses of my recollections

For something I was writing.

But when I looked up and saw daylight, I telephoned.

His recorded self

Was as alive and warm as he had always been.

The hours passed as I idly checked Instagram, waiting,

And there was his face, his mouth open to speak,

But in the words beneath

He was already six days deceased

And I would never see him again.