Periodic messages trigger past transgressions, martinis, smokey kisses and a bond that could not be, said I, not he.
Hiding behind a courtroom pulpit, the lord threatens hollow promises of a pilgrimage … to the country of my choice. Will I go? Not so. Not so.
The Spanish seas are more puissant than the Louisiana swamps. Yet, his clouded castles tower … while still I cower.
Lying low in the highlands, the voracious historian prefers books over battles and craves the touch of his long-lost lass, my ass.
Smart hats and vests, hair wiry to his shoulders, the man from Paname strums reassuring kisses my way, saying …
One day. One day.
They wait. They wander.
Life’s loves to ponder.
What did you say? So far away?
Your heart grumbles. The engines roar. Reality crumbles. The whiskey is poured.
Do you hear her?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear … you?
Keep listening. Keep listening. Keep listening.
Anne-Julia Price 