San Antonio, Like Nothing I’ve Ever Seen
A Sonnet by Rachel Billings
I’ve never been to San Antonio,
my postcard home and your poetic muse,
the root of your Amazonian glow
sketched like Texan sun on a ranch house roof.
I wish I could weave myself in the wheat
that your hands knead into the sound of bread,
like the hurricana music that storms
out of your car radio, harmonizing
our silhouettes. I only want to hear
that city when I climb your backyard lime tree.
San Antonio echoes in your letters.
I’ll never be there until you send me.
About the Creator
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More stories from Rachel Billings and writers in Poets and other communities.
Angels on the Platform
Sleeping on a subway is like floating through space. You’re hurtled towards an unknown destination without moving an inch, flashes of light occasionally curtaining your eyelids in between the stretches of inky emptiness. Lying on the back-aching, creamsicle-colored seats is the closest you’ll get to anti-gravitational suspension, one of the few things that you vaguely remember happens in space (it’s hard to know these things when you never got past the tenth grade and astronomy was an eleventh grade luxury). The other passengers-- middle-aged moms taking their kids to the zoo or vanilla businessmen on their way to another mind-numbing morning of meetings-- are like those space rocks that float in and out of your limited attention span: as long as they don’t touch you, they’re not a threat.
By Rachel Billings4 years ago in Humans
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