Weak Reception

Weak Reception

Brooke Dreger

I spoke with an old friend on the phone the other day,
her voice was tinny and far away.
I had to ask her to repeat herself many times,
because she was speaking in my old tongue,
from the other country I used to live in.
And while I was struggling to translate,
I realized I couldn’t remember how to conjugate the verbs,
or what the air felt like there, or what I
wore when it was humid.

How much as changed.
For a moment I was thinking
I’m glad I don’t live in Babylon anymore,
and I mourned her for staying there, where the rent is higher,
and there are rats in the walls,
and traffic is so fast it feels like you’re moving
even when you’re standing still.

Yet when she asked about my sudden departure
(I wish I could say I left all the furniture, but there
are a few pieces I still carry around with me),
she couldn’t understand my language either.
“What?” she said, and I got nervous,
speaking this new tongue in front of someone, fumbling
over the vocabulary knowing full well it wouldn’t make sense.

So I didn’t say much about where I’m living now.
Where the rent is cheaper and the lease is longer,
and the air is clearer, and the rain isn’t made of acid,
where it’s still cold but it doesn’t burn like it used to,
where there aren’t as many rats but there’s always a snake.

“I’m really happy here,” I said, and her garbled voice replied, 
“What, sorry? The reception is bad.”
So I said, “Maybe I should call you back?”

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Brooke Dreger
Writer & Student

Photography by Jonas Jaeken