Jan 29, 2008


Written by Bruce Bond

Read by Ashley McHugh

My mother sits befuddled at her telephone,
uncertain who she means to call
or why, which pill was the one
she feared she took.
Her dial tone is a tiny car,
its driver asleep, leaning on the horn.

These broken nights, when rest comes
late or not at all, her voice
gets lower, rougher, her father’s voice
emerging in her own.
One more day, she tells herself,
though what she is approaching she could not say.

And in time it comes, the mercy
of the empty places. In time
her mind gives out like headlights
over the darkened water. Closer,
I tell my mother, and she gazes up,
bemused, and down again;

hold the receiver closer, closer,
the phone’s grid of little figures
looking back. So foreign to her now,
this belly full of numbers
sparked and glowing, this far alarm
pulsing in her hand.