is invisible. A natural gas pipeline. Cables above the eyeline,
carried from pylon to pylon, past the horizon.
Is our love the horizon? A line where the sky
appears to meet the earth’s surface—
which means if you are the earth, then I am the sky—
which means if you are this house,
then I am the house behind this house,
which if we bought, I’d cut a gate into the back fence
to slip through, string a long-distance tin can phone
between our bedrooms. We could whisper in the dark
though you’d say nothing. I’d pretend you’re on the moon.
I’d still choose to make us dinner every night. Green smoothies
that you tolerate. Pasta with peas. Fried rice. We’re far from the night
we kissed atop a Ferris wheel, suspended above a skyline,
which beat to the blink of my pulse—
but our backyards could touch.
So I’d pour a glass of wine, meet you outside, where the clouds
look like ocean waves at twilight, and my pool is a warm sky
into which we could fly. Somehow the horizon
is reversing, while you’re busy grilling
beneath the globe lights, which we’ve stretched across our trees
like Morse code. Later, I’d kiss you
goodnight, leave you on your porch
resting in the glow of your phone
because I want you
to go home, play piano late at night,
don’t worry about the dishes.
Editor’s Note: Poems are selected by Poetry Editor Lupe Mendez, the 2022 Texas poet laureate and author of Why I Am Like Tequila. To submit a poem, please send an email with the poem attached to poetry@texasobserver.org. We’re looking for previously unpublished works of no more than 45 lines by Texas poets who have not been published by the Observer in the last two years. Pay is $100 on publication.
