(On A Bus)
He’s riding a bus
in Ecuador and I’m
in a San Francisco bed
talking stretched out
Spanish into a computer
screen, because the last line
of his e-mail said
I still love you.
When I last saw him it was only
three days after the first, he
walked into the waves, promised
not to come out until I left.
I wanted to be the girl who
stayed, but ambition was
kicking my insides, and
mother laughed when I told
her about it over the phone.
I had things to do, a bus to catch.
I think I’m a fool,
no I know I’m a fool,
better not think about it-
maybe just be foolish
this once, sip Monday night
champange, believe
under covers that romance
didn’t die-that it’s sitting
on a rattling bus saying
my name out loud.
(A Few Feet From The Beach)
Strange number on my phone tonight- his,
the country of him entering my home.
Outside it rains even though today
was sun packed, the park full of half naked
bodies, a girl wearing socks walking
a tight rope just to see what it felt
like to move with a sole of precision.
He’s sitting a few feet from the beach
in Salinas, where he lives with his mom
and a tio, asks me when I’m coming back.
Tomorrow I say, even though we both laugh
I start thinking of ways to be next to him again,
ways of turning life into an action –
a movement, a decision.
The porch is smooth and sleek when my neighbor
steps out shirtless because I’m speaking loud
broken Spanish. It’s too late to take it back.
Cut off silence of the night a string of
rainbow Christmas lights even though
it’s March, and the garden is empty,
except for the little chairs kids sit on.
Go back inside, warm dry house feels
suddenly alone. Wait for strange numbers,
the country of him to become my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment