JULY, 1991

In the now, I look at you, and see you're on the phone.

It occurs to me, so suddenly, that I would never stop.

I'd chit chat and laugh, hoping that the conversation never ends,

hoping to see you again, I look at you, in my hands.

When I try to call you though,

silence fills the space,

it rings, and rings, and rings,

nothing but dial tones and memories.

I click the phone shut.

In the now, I look at you, and see you on the phone.

A blur of burnt sunset, and you sit so low.

The counter looks cool to touch, your elbow resting on top.

Behind you, there is a stack of vibrant bottles and juices,

a kaleidoscope of choice.

Who are you speaking to?

Probably Mamá, freshly landed in London, far from home,

you've been caught, mid conversation, mid thought.

In the now, I look at you in my hands,

a photograph that's kept you safe,

Mamá did say, she used to call you when you were at the shop,

between each of her jobs,

I would call you, if I could, I promise I'd never stop.

Holding you, I feel the edge of paper

cut into my hand,

it occurs to me, so suddenly,

that I am all alone.

An echo of an era sat in my palms,

if I could speak to you again,

I know I wouldn't stop,

I'd cling onto the phone,

the cord wrapped around my hands

like a rosary in prayer,

I'd stay there,

still and breathing,

speaking with you until my bones

rusted and ached,

my hands are trembling,

my heart beating in my throat,

a heaviness in my gut,

but you are still on the phone.

Speaking with me, telling me about your days,

frozen in time, lost in talk,

and how we would never stop,

but as the sting of blood blooms on my fingers,

I blink away tears,

and hang up.