I am right here and you, right there.
My iPhone holds my hand at night
when you call to say “Good Morning.”
The joints between us ache as they pull
inward, desperately wanting
mountains to muster, oceans to dry.
The second hand never hesitates;
the miles won’t recede an inch.
If the ground, like a magic tablecloth,
snapped out from under us,
here I would still be—
there you would still be.
You’re awake. I’m asleep. You’re asleep. I’m awake.
Little Alek eats breakfast
on the placemat you sent him,
the map of the world—
your picture there;
our picture here.
He doesn’t understand why
if he can fold you over—
if he can crinkle our continents closer—
why can’t you come home
to just have breakfast with him.
“I promise after we eat our eggs,
he can go back to his war, Mommy!”
