I can still see your finger tracing circles at the tip of your thumb
and the shapes of your words slipping around your tongue ring. If
I could, I’d rotary dial you up just to feel the zip and too-slow
recoil. I love a sturdy old phone that actually rings, and
pineapples. I want to talk with you about pineapple rings. The
phone should have a very long cord, its tangled spiral springing
around the apartment, sometimes breaking things. I want to talk
to you about the circles of things, about that one spring I spun in
circles until I sprained both my wrists. I want to talk with you
about monkey bars and about vinyl, especially punk LPs spinning,
the funny-sad peace in these Mad-World days, about cassette
tapes of now classic rock spooling and unspooling, and the once
slow pull towards summer, the lost art of fast forwarding,
rewinding, finding beginnings again and again.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 4.
See all items about Suzanne Allen