The Phone

Antique German W48 Phone A photo by Qole Pejorian on Flickr

The Phone

In her dining room the squat black instrument presided
Regally altared, wide eye unblinking. Silent for days

then abruptly calling, bring, bring, bring me your ears.
Shocking us silent, our hearts pounding. We seldom answered.

At dinner the phone served illness, death and financial disasters
As we prayed for grace. I read their faces. Her grim lips pressed

to place our dinner on the table. Horrible to swallow.
Sauce of sighs, it tasted bitter of unspoken rage.  Phone calls

were placed from urgent need, but joy and love were never
urgent, they barely rated. Motion was the imperative need.

To keep moving despite the terrible consequence of life.
Words were meaningless. Her arms gripped tight against

Her breasts, spoke more clearly, shouted words no good woman
Would say, but act them out with me to pay, if I didn’t listen.

What phone can convey the duplicity of words and motion? 
It rang, I wouldn’t answer. I closed my ears and grew a callous

on my heart.  There are answers I will never hear. I barely listen.
I don’t know why she died.  She made no direct calls, only hints,

Sadly, saying it was best to just surrender. I shouldn’t have answered
When the phone rang in late August, it felt like Christmas should.

My children loud and lively around me on Sunday morning.  Love
And happiness where I could shelter from the urgent calls of home.

They said she’s dead, her heart stopped beating, but I don’t see why
I won’t and I won’t hear. My phones ring now and go unanswered. 


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