She calls me from San Francisco,
her voice full of fog
and the Pacific’s vast
inscrutable self-reliance.
I recall pressing mollusk shells
up to my ear as a boy
and pretending the noise in my head
was an ancient transmission
from Panthalassa
or at least Lake Superior.
My father once told me
it was the sound of my blood,
but he was wrong.
On the west coast it’s always
three hours ago,
the day forever full of promise,
but here it’s the end
of another long afternoon of not knowing
who I am when I’m alone.
Photo by Cristi B
