A poem by Sophie Stradling

The constant call  

From the places under my skin,  Violet and blue,  

A telephone so far within,  

Ringing.  

A gas station in the middle of nowhere Some desolate place in Illinois,  

maybe Georgia.  

I could be so far away  

And still see her out the window.  

The cars come and go all day,  

Dust trailing behind their running dreams,  Maybe that one will remember me,  or that one,  

or not.  

Maybe you’ll pull up,  

Walk inside and tell me to get in the car 

We’re going, you say,  

I nod and escape. 

 

I hang up the phone.  

We’re miles away now,  

But the pager  

on my wrist, at  

my waist  

yells at me 

pick up. 

Artwork by Sophie Stradling