Echo

The Walrus - - WHEELERS - by Le­nea Grace

Sweet­heart, tell me about Lub­bock (on ev­ery­thing) un­der pin­ball lights, over soft beer in a cabin bar on Geary Ave—tell me this win­ter was a gift, a slow pour: a love song com­posed years be­fore we were born. Tell me a decade of sto­ries. Tell me Cal­i­for­nia is the sev­en­ties, low palms and hot pink sky, strip mall run­ways. And Eng­land the for­ties, aus­tere in wool jumpers, smart and moored.

Tell me about the smok­ing sec­tion on a Bri­tish Cale­do­nian flight.

Tell me about your shabby, gen­teel aunts.

Tell me about your grand­fa­ther with a solo lung— he swam across Mem­phrem­a­gog once or twice. Free love and how many broth­ers and sis­ters your fa­ther had (has).

Tell me how my fa­ther woke up in the desert at 4 a.m.—my brother’s birth the hori­zon, re­ver­ber­at­ing lat­i­tudes. Tell me the physics of love­lock, love locked be­tween par­al­lels, sep­a­rate break­fasts at kitchen ta­bles in Hous­ton and in Toronto.

Tell me this is it. Tell me this isn’t it.

Tell me about hang­over rock— let’s get into the meta­physics of re­gret— mis­in­ter­pret our lyrics, call my name Le­nea, Le­nea in the gloam­ing, in the gloam­ing. Draw nearer.

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