by Helena Mesa
Not even flight patterns offer certainty tonight.
Which words will bring you beside me tonight?
The plane trembles over your state line. Mountains,
plains—how do I map our geography tonight?
Rain ferries across your streets, inverts the stars.
Nearly asleep, I know snow muffles my eaves tonight.
Once, we lived together—our time marked
by a season, a plan. Why think of that lease tonight?
Extrañar, to miss, as in, extraño tu voz en la mañana.
Me extraña, as in, how odd your voice feels tonight.
You say planes are also arrivals. Why is there always
a suitcase half-packed? Forgive my defeat tonight.
These nights, these archipelagos of words:
Say skin, breath, tongue—say Helena, here, tonight.
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