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.