
I, Phone "There will come a time when it isn't 'They're spying on me through my phone' anymore. Eventually, it will be 'My phone is spying on me.'" - Philip K. Dick (1928 - 1982) Your fingers, warm against my cheek, caressing like pages of sacred scrolls. Your eyes are vacant hotel rooms, green glowing in the dark. The slack of your jaw, the heat of your breath, So inviting. Through the mirror, rivulets of black and red crawl into your mouth, lining your throat, wiring muscle and bone, burrowing copper deep inside pink folds. Your voice, your body, a conduit. ___________________________________ William Our silver station wagon is peeled open and spilling across Rogers Avenue like a can of tomatos. Bent through the window, my father speaks glass and teeth. My mother siezes in the front seat. White eyes of an oracle, quivering. The phone rings on the hospital wall. "How is she?" a quaking voice asks. The shock of my mother's broken body speaks for me. "We're fine," is all I can say to the driver. I still think about him sometimes. Just out of high school then, he might have children of his own by now. The burden he must still hold weighs on me, and I wish he could see my parents, smiling, as they play with their grandkids. _____________________________________ Muse Conjured once again, she lies in an exhausted heap of cream linen and feathers on my kitchen floor. I wait, impatiently, while she peels off another piece of vellum skin. Ignoring her frantic screams, I place my inkwell beneath the crimson fountain, pluck a quill from eider wings, and write.
Bio pending.
Pingback: – The Chamber Magazine