The Night I Called You and You Wouldn't Pick Up, I Think You May Have Saved My Life

Author | James Diaz

You will remember
crux of hand
against the pay phone
how hard it rained
and how it seemed
as if there were no one
in the world who might
still love you as they once
had loved you long ago
the small rivulet where noon
hid its survival gear
the looseness of time against skin
against I wont go through this again
face in the earth, down swell, hail water
hail my life jitters up along the bend
expelled
retrieving
a cup and a half of lost breath
your sister's fingers running through the creek
a ripple in time glitters the fold
where miracles rush through
unimpeded
darkening in the night I will not wait for you
I will however continue to scale the floorboards
sharpen my variants
miss you less
learn the names of new leaves
Amur Maple, Asian White Birch
I am still hurting, still slurring
the cluster of sound, the faintest grace
how do you know when it is enough?
You never know when it's enough.


About the Author | James Diaz is founding editor of the literary arts & music journal Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared in HIV Here & Now, Ditch, Cheap Pop Lit, Foliate Oak, Epigraph, Chronogram and Collective Exile. He lives in upstate New York.