At the age of seven, I believed God
to listen, my hands a corded phone
transfiguring prayers to voicemails.
One night I fell asleep without
ending the call with the sign of the cross.
During my eight hours of silence,
wars were created & people begged
for help, but God couldn’t be found
because He was bent over
an answering machine, listening
to me breathe.
At Sunday school, Sister Mary reminds me
selfish & Sonya both begin with “s.”
The hospital stacks voicemails
on my phone like I, too, am god.
Stephanie, a nurse, Nick, a PA, then the doctor
himself reaches out—the holy trinity
of you have to translate to your father
that we found a tumor. He’s refusing to stay
overnight & says he doesn’t understand.
Call us back.
A boy I like teaches me to play
the drums, his hands warm on mine
when he tells me it’ll be okay.
My bare foot keeps time hitting the bass
—it does not sound benign.
Our drumsticks drown with uneven beats
that make him smile
as the rest of the world floods.
He hums a beat—bum bum bum pa
bum bum bum pa bum bum bum pa
—as we strike each communioned face
for the distraction of rhythm. Listen—
bum bum bum pa bum bum bum pa
bum bum bum pa—my phone rattles a heartbeat
across the room. Try it again.
