Brendan Constantine
The Wooden Telephone
Hardly Works At All
but we love it like an aunt. It has soothed
a splinter into our will, feels so right
in the hand, so first & best.
The numbers wore away forests ago, you can
barely hear the tone for the sound of leaves.
We dial out from memory, but only to family.
Today when I said It was so dark last night,
the dead—under the floor, the house, the town—
asked How dark was it?
Shh, I said, I’m trying to talk to
uncle Ray.
We know, they creaked, Tell him ‘Hi.’ from us.
Tell him to stop
taking those pills.
I didn’t, of course. If we started taking orders
from the dead, they wouldn’t shut up
until our ears husked out, blew away.
Copyright (c)Brendan Constantine, 2005. All rights reserved.
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