After 20 Years, She Calls For An
The sun strains against the pull of foothills,
blinks and rings. I keep a telephone extension
on the deck for calls like this – Lisa’s voice
stretched thin from here to California:
her Catholic fiancée, her need to undo
the last of us. I hand her my memories.
Long legs beneath a tablecloth
in Venice, a fragile stack of prawns.
She strings these on new thread, adds
the last time I saw her in a silver running
suit. The phone clicks like a rosary.
A greyhound’s been taking shape
since sundown, bunching its muscles
for a last jump, but the hoop’s down
and the fire’s out. It’s cold now, just
the moon, a few old stars.