Amanda Leigh RogersI write you from imaginary Spain
where the sparkle on the sea pulses a code.
I think it is from you, but how to tell?
Philadelphia’s imaginary here.
The rarely changing news from Spain is still
the same. The fragrant oleander blooms.
Some melody froths forth from some guitar.
Blue horses graze on grassy hills above
the cryptic sea. I haven’t heard your voice
in days. I haven’t tasted Philly’s thick
exhausted streets in years. I haven’t cleaned
the closet since we bought the house. Your Spain’s
so far from mine, it might be Machu Picchu
or California where the trees are prayers.
I’ll roll this in a bottle once again
and toss it to the glitter. I will flash
it on the surface til you see.
SOS! This stupid Spain is sinking,
and I’m too weak to swim to Philadelphia. Read more »