Facebook Messenger Pastoral
I say prairie. You say nowhere
close enough to the ocean.
On your drive to work the sunlight
glaring off the mountains
must be the same that filters
through my Midwestern paned
windows. From my landlocked island
I trace the Kaw’s path, a thread
in the embroidery of rivers
that feeds into the gulf. A salt
cure for distance. But I won’t write to you
about how last night a man at the bar
overheard me say your island’s
name in my mouth.
He summoned those mountains
on his phone. El Yunque. Direct flights
are cheap, he reminded me. I choked
on my pineapple vodka. All these
years are for nothing.
I do not leave. You do not return.
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