I see them stretched across my ceiling at night
aligned in constellations; Orion spells out a longing
to be a sailor on a text-book voyage across a historical ocean.
I have translated them into ninety degree angles, shapes
like octagons, glass bottles, and even the tiniest Lego piece.
But still, no America; no dinosaur or stop sign or beer.
Silence has the look of a blank rolodex
while I wait for the phone to buzz
in cricket or flood my ears with water
before they pop and I have swum too deep.
I hesitate answering the way a child might
upon his first meeting with the classroom:
the kids will morph into monkeys,
hyenas, most likely parrots;
they’ll scratch their heads at him;
surround him and laugh at him;
talk to him in bird chirps &
stick their fingers in his painting!
Buzz.
"Hello."
"Quack!"
Click.
I transcribe what I think his waddle
looks like on the phone slip; his reckoning
over-bite; his clumsy eyebrows holding on
to his forehead as if it were a cliff.
