melissaahowells
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dialing the number
the one which is automatic reflexive my fingers have it memorized 235-0315 a number before there were the obligatory ten before the country exploded into a cacophony of unrecognizable area codes the line rings expecting a voice so real its nearly like my own there's a dark echoing across the wires I can hear the darkness behind her its not her darkness but my own answering I say hello like an actress saying her lines rehearsed to perfection pacing with the chord entwined between fingers delivering my soliloquy but the background betrays silence no one is in the audience only empty seats in long lines of darkened rows its the persistence of memory which makes me wait for an answer the shadows of realization the darkness of negativity acknowledged: she isn't there but somewhere and some way (I bargain with myself) she does know where she is what is there-- is the sway of the suspended wire stretching, tightening and loosening, measuring the strength of the distances between us in the strong prairie winds somewhere what's left of her is stirring through the air, a sort of current the spectral shaved wooden once-trees raise their stiff arms to the Great Spirit pantomiming as Ghost Dancers in a fixed line stitching the prairies to the coast where I live waiting for my overdue answer the Earth is Our Mother but who will take care of my own? in prayer flags and through telephone lines and in storm clouds measuring a horizon or in birds in flocks on the wing? where is she-- is she now in everything? LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 9:15AM PST 7/13/2020 time date stamped and also for this poet/author Melissa A. Howells and also for this legally copyrighted AND registered site title Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World. Vote for this poem |
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