Letter to Eve

Letter to Eve

Again it is Wednesday.  The weekday in the middle when

by policy the university stops.  All students leave the campus for somewhere else.

Secretaries ease themselves, certain the paperwork will be done on time

nothing new is coming; and the security guards down, empty hallways

at times can be comforting.  Like world under water.  The pace of things quiet. 

It would be nice to make my way to the beach today.  This apartment, too,

the view of Iglesia spires pointing to the blue, empty; no matter the sun

is even on the walls and the cactus on the coffee table grew a flower.

My mother had said nothing when finally told

grasping why I’d rather be spending my days out walking alone with a dog.

Of course she knows.  But you are too far away.  Less real, I must say,

if not for these blind pockets within days I put my hand in

not really surprised you are there.  If I move

put away this paper, take keys instead and close the door

go down stairs to the park to pedal on a bike the kilometers to the shore,

it wouldn’t have mattered.  The surf would be constant, the kelp, the birds.

The distance.  And something else would inevitably remind me 

the anchored boat denied from the tide; the flotsam bottle at my feet. 

by Charmaine Carreon