Calling

The little anole on the rail changes color.
You’ve been gone so long
it’s almost funny

I still wait. Your call is the unfair space
between silences where hope arises,
Sundays between Sundays.

When you call, I populate, fecund idea
from mouth to ear. A smile of thinking.
My words rust on the can rattling

between us. You leave as raindrops
vanish from fragile air after the rains.
The anole turns a darker green. Forest.

It’s like seeing two words compounded:
I’m elated by compression.
A small song.

Brooke Harries is from California. Her work has appeared in Arkansas Review, Laurel Review, Puerto del Sol, Salamander, Sixth Finch, Tilted House, and elsewhere. She has an MFA from UC Irvine and is a PhD student at the University of Southern Mississippi.

Published January 15 2025