Broken lines

  • Posted on February 24, 2015 at 1:19 pm

I imagine the sky beneath your feet
being smoothed by the underbelly of the plane
and below that, the diminishing of sea
from mountains into ripples and glints.

Your ears hear nothing of this, your eyes
lose curiosity with the hours, the drift
between us to your disconnected places,
now turned summer, under alien trees.

I watch a tiny green gaming piece, which is
your plane on my screen, tracking a tracer of sky
vulnerable dashes on wide oceans, microscopically
teasing me to watch its infinitesimal play.

I sleep. Perhaps you do too, blanket and blinds,
unseeing each other—the line is lost and incrementally
I wake in your night to read you have sometime safely
landed, lost to miles, found on my phone, so far.

Today you tell me you are three thousand mountain
metres in the sky, the highest you’ve ever been with feet
on the ground while mine are flying to you lifted
with words of loving, fast as light but out of time.

I imagine Bogota under your shoes, its strange dust,
beautiful people, and money in case of robbers
held tight as your head fills with unfamiliar Spanish
routed via watchfulness and gratitude of home.

We touch each day, through fingertips, pressed down
in constantly-crossed messages, until the wires,
wound across continents, laid beneath oceans,
knitting our longings, our remoteness, become frayed.

 

2015 © Andie Davidson

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