Nov 8, 2011

Telegram

Written by Amy MacLennan

Read by Carolyn Guinzio

After, we sprawl. Our arms looped,
my foot against your calf, your hand
on my thigh, a completed circuit,
uncomplicated. As we drift, your fingers
start the nerve spasm of sleep,
morse code tap as you passage,
a message I do not know
how to decipher. I let your dispatch
play through me, chains of letters
that tell everything
you haven’t said, so many words
strung together — and I can’t
make sense of them.
I am sinking too, into a night
where we turn and settle —
our communiqu├ęs in the form of pulse
and slow breath. Before sleep
takes me, I imagine a cable to you,
each word well-chosen, costly…
one of us will leave
I will remember my body
ached for you like no other stop

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