What if my phone was really big and came only in black?
What if it was tethered by twisted steel cable,
and I could only talk if I had a round piece of metal
and had thumbed through pages of names?
What if all the phones were connected by wires
like trees and grass by mycelium
like our homes by cleaned water in pipes?
I couldn’t drop it on the sidewalk and shatter its display.
I couldn’t lose it in my purse or silence it at recitals.
I couldn’t smell the last caller’s breath or feel his heat on my face.
The stories we tell ourselves would they stay grounded--
when our loved ones die would the stories hold meaning?
Like voices do when they bounce on a wet string
between dixie cups not at a loss for something to say.
like our homes by cleaned water in pipes?
I couldn’t drop it on the sidewalk and shatter its display.
I couldn’t lose it in my purse or silence it at recitals.
I couldn’t smell the last caller’s breath or feel his heat on my face.
The stories we tell ourselves would they stay grounded--
when our loved ones die would the stories hold meaning?
Like voices do when they bounce on a wet string
between dixie cups not at a loss for something to say.
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