contact

a can held to my ear
I can barely make out:
Hello! Can you hear me? 

muffled pulses
through tin and string. 

I have a silver ring
with “HOPE” stamped on it
the tokamak, flush with plasma,  

glows and thrums
around my finger. 

I hear whispers emerge
from electron-filled clouds
THEY, like the newly born,

must know hunger
and light. 

I wonder how bright
this ring shines, or could,
if I shout back down the line: 

Yes! Come here.
I want to see you.