You are beautiful as a telephone, colors
of bone, rocket ship, and cocktail lounge—
Hmm, says the neon sign, starting
an unfinishable thought.
Where do we go from here?
I’m a balloon,
each minute you don’t call is a breath
you blow into me.
I want to be the crackers in your soup,
I want to be your brass compass. Oh, mister,
just thinking about you curls the ends of my hair.
The clock tisk-tisks.
Moon, you old spinster, don’t you mock me
with your pockmarks and your slow, slow travels.
Moon, what would you know, cold as cheese?
Behind a far-off door, a thought about me is being formed
out of nothing but light.
And when that phone does ring—
from “Love, An Index” by Rebecca Lindenberg