Somewhere out there, an operator plugged in
the wire of your voice to the switchboard
of Arkansas where I am
happy to accept the charges—an act so antique
I think of Sputnik beeping
overhead, lovers petting in Buicks
and glowing with the green of radium dials.
But what you’ve called to say is lost
in the line’s wreckage of crackle and static.
The night you went away
the interstate glowed red beneath the flaring
fins of your father’s Cadillac.
Now this collect call
from outer space & what you’ve called to say
is clear at last: Among stars
lovers come and go easy as you please. It’s the gravity
of Earth that makes letting go so hard.