a literary and visual arts journal
…uses your device’s clock and location to determine when the sun sets. Then it adjusts the color of your display to the warmer end of the spectrum—making it easier on your eyes.
We idle the Del Sol into California,
Missouri, to stare at the sun. As I unfold
my cardboard glasses, your elbow straightens
your phone between us and the sky,
and we smile with all of our impatient teeth.
Outside the frame of this selfie, our palms weld
against one another, hovering a half inch
from the hot paint of your passenger door.
As the moon rolls over the sun,
the cicadas surprise us for the second time
in seventeen years. We watch
the Venn Diagram above us turn
into a dilated pupil, while the hands we don’t hold
peel the cardboard filters from our faces—
and for two minutes, we understand
why our eyes are not cameras.
We try not to try and memorize
this panoramic sunset.
To delete a city from your weather app, swipe left, then tap Delete.
Today the rain forgot how to splash.
You watch it supercool and icicle
down the powerlines—gravity sagging
their electric grins—while I watch
the windshield of my redeye glaze
over, delayed. You ask me whether
I noticed the sun misplacing itself
inside the bookshelf of clouds
now scraping this satellite beam,
like frost, across the glass panels
that frame Chicago’s stalagmite skyline—
and I answer, I’m sorry. Siri promised
the sun wouldn’t set for another hour.
I apologize to the thirty-six pixels
pretending to be your left ear, until
your finger flicks the camera around
to face your bedroom window screen,
to stream its attempts at filtering the rain.
I squint as the squares in its grid
freeze into a mosaic mirror, and you
ask my reflection whether I can see
those ice-capsuled, pine-needle trees—
whether it’s easier for me to picture
my bare ankles shuffling to O’Hare
between such inclement sculptures, or back
into your warm apartment in the suburbs.