Waiting for Your Call

by Aria Aber

The light retreats and is generous again.
No you to speak of, anywhere—neither in vicinity nor distance,
 
so I look at the blue water, the snowy egret, the lace of its feathers 
shaking in the wind, the lake—no, I am lying.
 
There are no egrets here, no water. Most of the time,
my mind gnaws on such ridiculous fictions.
 
My phone notes littered with lines like Beauty will not save you. 
Or: mouthwash, yogurt, cilantro.
 
A hummingbird zips past me, its luminescent plumage 
disturbing my vision like a tiny dorsal fin.
 
But what I want does not appear. Instead, I find the redwoods and pines, 
figs that have fallen and burst open on the pavement,
 
announcing that sickly sweet smell,
the sweetness of grief, my prayer for what is gone.
 
You are so dramatic, I say to the reflection on my phone, 
then order the collected novels of Jean Rhys.
 
She, too, was humiliated by her body, that it wanted
such stupid, simple things: food and cherry wine, to touch someone.
 
On my daily walk, I steal Meyer lemons from my neighbors’ yard,
a small pomegranate. Instead of eating them,
 
I observe their casual rot on the kitchen counter,
this theatre of good things turning into something else.

“I wrote this poem to avenge myself against desire, which made a fool of me.”
—Aria Aber

Aria Aber is the author of Hard Damage (University of Nebraska Press, 2019),
winner of the 2018 Prairie Schooner Prize. The recipient of a 2020 Whiting Award,
a Wallace Stegner Fellowship, and a Wisconsin Institute of Creative Writing Fellowship,
she lives in Berkeley, California.

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After spending a few days in the Piedmont of North Carolina, I stopped in at this McDonald’s in order to do some writing.  Without WIFI there’s no writing, at least, no posting to a blog.  Maybe I should write anyway?

I read this poem several days ago and was moved by the language.  Then and there I determined to post it, to indicate why I believe the poem says something important.

For the past several days I have observed, and heard some of the commentary offered by the Fox News channel.  The content reminds me of the vituperative, turbid ambiance of a doctrinal disagreement, un-resolvable, which inevitably will lead to a “church split.”  Those born in the South with a religious background will understand my point. 

Often we cannot have what we want.

     Grief can be sweet, and often prayer is the appropriate response to our losses.

          The simple things are most real.

               Good things do not last, and that is how things are.