I hear the phone call--

I hear the phone call.

A message left, water-logged.

I re-read the sent message,

feel the anticipation

of a non-reply.

I see her face, disgusted,

and am embarrassed,

but will call again

until I undo what I've done.

I avoid music,

shutting it all off,

if it is happy or sad.

I get cold in the mornings

and too hot come nights.

I am losing sleep

and so I begin to drink,

the old, rough habit.

Spilling my guts

over all these things I've done,

I am a martyr.

It is sad, sick, and tired,

silly and embarrassing.

I will forget what time it is,

crawl to the floor,

drag myself to the bathroom.

When I brush my teeth,

I will gag myself

and vomit in the sink.

Go play in the trees, she told her--

"Go play in the trees," she told her,

"and narrate everything you do."

And so the child grabbed

and snapped and jumped,

slid and crashed,

muddied and climbed,

scratched, cut, bled.

But mostly, the child talked

and thought about what she said,

choosing her words carefully.

Words like, "The trees are tall"

and "When the wind blows,

their leaves fall on me."