Whenever pineapple-
shaped candies with uncertain hearts
appear in a bowl she thinks she ought
to contact Hawaii even though
she doesn’t know anyone there
and whenever my sister and I thank her for
whatever kind of licorice it is
that tastes like beets
and looks like electrical wire
connections are probably made.
She likes to show us
old photos of herself,
a student at the Politechnika,
and when she does I want to be
a bird flying over her
reporting on her bluish wrists and the soft concentric
circles of her elbows, the milky way
of specks above her neckline
and the pale soil under the primroses
of her summer dresses.
Because of her invention
I can talk to girls anywhere in the world.
She’s turned voices into tulips,
nervous breathing into orchids.
There’s no reason why Juliet should ever die.
Mrs. Janecek says love is the new technology.
She lets me throw my tennis ball
against her garage wall for hours on end.
When I wave to her she always waves back.
Her laugh always begins with a smile.
When she visits my dreams she stays
a long time so I can look at every
inch of her without rushing
or glancing over my shoulder or
waiting for someone somewhere to speak.