Alicia Salvadeo

A list toward something I cannot say. Having moved past hard work meant for hands that can keep pace, I turn toward other professions: transcription, transferal, translation. Threshing becomes thrashing. You ask me over the phone, Do you hear how windy it is here?  Straining to catch the thrush passing through, olive-backed, grey-cheeked. Transitive, intransitive. Yes the sound is both attractive and repulsive, as of lake shell bowled to ear, trace of each wave engraved into. Cross-section of stasis. Asking how, how, as something bounces off a window of any great glass building. We are learning to read each other's faces over the phone. Keeping in touch. Longing to reach. Can you tell me where I am, I'm somewhere downtown I need to find the station. Grains, scruples, drams for winter chills: the science of weighing (once, of conveying). Some birds, robins maybe, detect magnetic fields as spots in their vision. Pigeons feel it in their beaks. I want that: to move according to a feeling, loose pattern to follow. Walk from Clark toward Diversey, take the purple line north. A physical place where one breaks down and the other picks up, that's where we are—












This poem is one of a series meditating on how to overcome the distances between, the methods and the madness of each. Where we are, here: two places at once, voices thrown, two bodies left behind.