Geography

my head hurts like the dickens

and you are not here.

Tonight leaving work

there was the moon—

huge and hanging low

pale orange and I thought to tell you

but you were not there.

Of course. How could I expect you to be?

It is the hardest because it is

so reasonable

and my mis-starts and missteps

like a child who keeps thinking

the Andes are next to the Himalayas

and crying when she is wrong

because she knows better.

But you, unlike the distant Himalayas,

ought to be near

to share moonrises on the second of June

thunderstorms

and quiet Saturdays

drives at golden hour, the air full

of snowy cottonwood seeds

catching the sun like stars.

(Were there no mountain range between us

I would lie on the floor beside you

murmuring conversation until tired enough

to sleep this headache away.

And your silence would be broken.)

But ever my geography was faulty. 



~j.l.s.