Crossed Wires

by

Diane Klammer

That hard plastic cradle rocks
With the receiver screaming
To be picked up
To be held.
I clutch it to my face,
Feeling its cold pliability
Pressed against my cheek.

I wonder about the outcome
Of yet another conversation.
Will your callous remarks
Mar my soul with welts of anger?
Or will your quiet longing
soothe away my tears?

How strange that our twenty four year
Union can be compressed
Through a machine,
Condensed into
A telephone conversation.

One thousand miles separate us.
a void stretched over and over
Into words of wired speech.
We do not connect.

You said you'd never leave
Before flying onto a Colorado plateau
To pursue your career:
That thing you hold most precious.

Our children and I
Remain here working on the puzzle.
All these tiny pieces need to be reassembled.
The pattern of domestic bliss
is missing.

We curse to find
What is lost
As we crawl around
This room's emptiness,

Finally I find a pair of scissors,
Start cutting
To create a facsimilie
Of what would complete this picture.

That one tiny cardboard cutout
Looks tawdry and dull
Against all those bright colors
Which don't fill in to whole.

Incomplete and off balance
I cannot stop the ringing in my ears.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at The butcher boy
by: Francis Duggan
from: Wonthaggi, Victoria, Australia

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