I know your ring; who else would call on the first day
of Spring to wish me Happy New Year,
with seven S’s laid upon a table I have seen
in photographs embedded in your email
I hold the receiver
flush to the ear that hears the clearest,
my right, lips pursed at the mike.
I would whisper but for static
in the line
You say let’s not discuss the war, though it seems we trip
through overlapping monologues on global
politics, and I enjoy it much
as any other subject
But I prefer the blur
in your voice when you remind me
I was born 10 days before the Spring
on a morning turquoise
as my eyes
And I love that
old world way of stringing out goodbye with promises of kisses for the children, until a warning click cuts the final stream
of words you mean to say
Each syllable itself is unimportant; we will never piece together
everything we might have said in the history
of silence. Still I sometimes lose my bearings
when the line goes dead
