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Chris calls from Colorado
by Natalie Jones
Chris calls from Colorado with wind in his voice,
says that well each find love if we keep looking under
pebbles scattered along the beach. Says London is a
miracle, maybe, if we just train our eyes to see it.
Meanwhile, promises of love sicken. Memory inches itself
around my veins, carrying all those kisses from left
ventricle to right. His fingerprints once on my hands
now washed off with the dead skin and the dead air.
I try to repeat the sound of his voice, the one promising,
you are the same girl, now sitting in profound silence,
that same girl who climbed towers, who cried with me
under the trees. I try to respond, dear boy, you can
be so sure of your fumbling voice, but I still fall in love
about three times a year and you were just a summer.
01/22/2006 Posted on 01/22/2006
Copyright © 2010 Natalie Jones
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