CONJUNCTIONS:2 Spring 1982

Spanish Sky Walter Abish

Out of the cyprus bounced a peeled onion, out of clipped hedge fell an Anjou pear. How will I ever learn to greet you in Spanish if, whenever I enter your cardboard house, you aren't there? As the letter "G" in Gracias formed its untimate request the "O" concealed the loop I made just before I became your guest. Oh, how will I ever learn to see you, if, whenever I enter your room, you aren't there? In the order of our arrival, in the order of our seated requests, I was first served a Mexican omelette without chopped onion, then, to top it off, an Anjou pear. But how will I ever learn to feel you, if, whenever I enter your bed, you aren't there? As I tried to recall your face, the letter "N" fell softly into place like an Anjou pear that had long ago lost its taste. But I really wouldn't know what to do or say if, when I next open your door, I find that you have not chosen to delay the letter "E" in the short word I would endlessly like to stay.