American Fractal

On the Phone My Mother

59 On the Phone My Mother says she’s listening, says have you eaten yet, has the California sky lost its hue? We prattle like this, we pitch, we list. She asks and asks; I answer everything. A room full of hot air here; a room full of hot air there. And so we blow in our balloon, happy for the hole in it. And so the circle holds its shape, hovers there. And so the silence is full of this thin whistling sound. Something escaping, always, something holding on. ...