The dog barked all morning.
The green trees breathed blue air.
I’m resting now, on the motel bed,
the TV watching me.
I am a telephone.
Why don’t you call?
Blood-black night in my veins,
I want one good noise,
so I turn on the radio’s truth music.
When you wore your flammable party body
I wanted you, like charred bones want flesh.
I think I hear ringing, now,
I’m a phone call to myself.
Naked on this bed,
I have no address.
Wherever you’ve gone,
I will call you,
remind you
I’m not your fault.
Appeared in The Midwest Quarterly, Summer, 2014.
