photo copyright (c) 2008 Ruth NolanWireless Love
yesterday my cell phone
was dead, when you tried to call
to set up another weekend adventure
into the desert, it was the damn new
phone, I'm still figuring it out
the one I bought this week
because I lost my reliable old Nokia
in the desert near the petroglyphs
25 miles due northeast of Lucerne Valley
past where the "bros" swamp dust with their platoons
of ridiculous off road vehicles, where I sat pregnant
21 years ago this upcoming spring, alone,
and found a pink arrowhead, then I had a girl,
where you and I sat in the darkening car
while you chugged one Fat Tire beer
you opened it with my mountain climbing clamp
that I use for my car keys
as I'm wont to lose them frequently
clipping on and off rubber bands, USB port drive,
school keys and gate keys of all stripes
from when you lived with me
and were paranoid because I have a stalker
who lives down the street, he once busted in my gate
and the one I had rebuilt hangs unevenly
and it's a matter of time before the big dog
knocks it down, his clawmarks scar its face,
visits from the UPS man and bug spray guy,
then you opened a second beer
and I drove too fast
so we wouldn't get stuck in the soft sand road
I have driven these desert paths for years
and I know how to avoid the jagged rocks
beer foam spraying your chin
just you and me, in the dark November twilight
too fast how it came down on us
in our petroglyph finger tracing spree
we couldn't duplicate that this weekend
first my new phone dead
because I forgot to pay the bill
and your phone is down tonight,
I imagine how you forgot to renew
your pay per minute card
and waited for me to call yesterday, last night
when we'd hoped you would come by
so we could disappear into a desert shadow
or morning or some rock phantasmagoria
just you and me, the way it's always been
with us, alone in the desert
where I'll put my head on your chest,
you are just tall enough for me to make
the perfect rest, very few others in my life
have stood this high, and it's a peaceful place
and you might put your arms around me,
it seems you wrap them twice,
and nothing can penetrate that,
not the loss of the old phone
that bounced off the top of my car
and was so far out in the desert
it wasn't worth driving out to find,
it was so old anyway, and I imagine it
sitting there dead and dull, keeping time
in its faded battery heart with the old
stone art, I imagine you buying more minutes
and our intersections colliding again
because they always do
I'll call me or you'll call you,
it's hard to connect, you live 60 miles
away and I'm way out in the desert,
two freeways, badlands, a giant casino
and windmills mismatching the path
between us, a bridge over white river rocks
and we will talk about our next drive
penetrating cities and busy lives, mine much more
than yours, which I celebrate and resent
to the end of some dirt road I remember
from when I was your age, that old cliche
but something so new
my primitive umbilicial cord wire
guide connecting me to the desert's placenta
again, a place where I will sit and be nothing,
say nothing, blend into the dry earth again
and you will sit there too, our hearts
merging into one universe
you'll call me tonight, I hope
or I will try again to call you
this perfect alone ring tone.
Ruth Nolan c. 2008
was dead, when you tried to call
to set up another weekend adventure
into the desert, it was the damn new
phone, I'm still figuring it out
the one I bought this week
because I lost my reliable old Nokia
in the desert near the petroglyphs
25 miles due northeast of Lucerne Valley
past where the "bros" swamp dust with their platoons
of ridiculous off road vehicles, where I sat pregnant
21 years ago this upcoming spring, alone,
and found a pink arrowhead, then I had a girl,
where you and I sat in the darkening car
while you chugged one Fat Tire beer
you opened it with my mountain climbing clamp
that I use for my car keys
as I'm wont to lose them frequently
clipping on and off rubber bands, USB port drive,
school keys and gate keys of all stripes
from when you lived with me
and were paranoid because I have a stalker
who lives down the street, he once busted in my gate
and the one I had rebuilt hangs unevenly
and it's a matter of time before the big dog
knocks it down, his clawmarks scar its face,
visits from the UPS man and bug spray guy,
then you opened a second beer
and I drove too fast
so we wouldn't get stuck in the soft sand road
I have driven these desert paths for years
and I know how to avoid the jagged rocks
beer foam spraying your chin
just you and me, in the dark November twilight
too fast how it came down on us
in our petroglyph finger tracing spree
we couldn't duplicate that this weekend
first my new phone dead
because I forgot to pay the bill
and your phone is down tonight,
I imagine how you forgot to renew
your pay per minute card
and waited for me to call yesterday, last night
when we'd hoped you would come by
so we could disappear into a desert shadow
or morning or some rock phantasmagoria
just you and me, the way it's always been
with us, alone in the desert
where I'll put my head on your chest,
you are just tall enough for me to make
the perfect rest, very few others in my life
have stood this high, and it's a peaceful place
and you might put your arms around me,
it seems you wrap them twice,
and nothing can penetrate that,
not the loss of the old phone
that bounced off the top of my car
and was so far out in the desert
it wasn't worth driving out to find,
it was so old anyway, and I imagine it
sitting there dead and dull, keeping time
in its faded battery heart with the old
stone art, I imagine you buying more minutes
and our intersections colliding again
because they always do
I'll call me or you'll call you,
it's hard to connect, you live 60 miles
away and I'm way out in the desert,
two freeways, badlands, a giant casino
and windmills mismatching the path
between us, a bridge over white river rocks
and we will talk about our next drive
penetrating cities and busy lives, mine much more
than yours, which I celebrate and resent
to the end of some dirt road I remember
from when I was your age, that old cliche
but something so new
my primitive umbilicial cord wire
guide connecting me to the desert's placenta
again, a place where I will sit and be nothing,
say nothing, blend into the dry earth again
and you will sit there too, our hearts
merging into one universe
you'll call me tonight, I hope
or I will try again to call you
this perfect alone ring tone.
Ruth Nolan c. 2008
