Even now her voice sounds far away
\neven farther than across the country
\nwhispering over phone lines and satellite.<\/p>\n
I hold the receiver against my ear
\nmy clutching fingers ache, arthritic
\nwarm plastic crushes my earlobe.<\/p>\n
At first the conversation is in the room;
\nshe talks about her kids and her kids’ kids;
\nshe ttalks about her garden, the hard soil.<\/p>\n
Then she drifts far away, to the holy land,
\nthe land of truth that brooks no argument:
\nher voice tiny, sibilant vibrations and space.<\/p>\n
I can see the color of her rage, tendrils
\nof green and sparking blue drift through the room
\nlike cigarette smoke through afternoon sunlight.<\/p>\n
I see her dancing among the clouds
\nher lips snapping like maracas on a Mexican patio
\nthe words beading on a Corona bottle.<\/p>\n
Housefly settles on the lip of the bottle
\nperforms the ritual frantic toilette
\nthat fills its caustic life, then lifts and flits away.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Even now her voice sounds far away even farther than across the country whispering over phone lines and satellite. I hold the receiver against my ear my clutching fingers ache, arthritic warm plastic crushes my earlobe. At first the conversation … Continue reading