MOTHER'S  MORNING  CALL

by Lu Dumke





Sparse eyebrows
each wild black hair
shooting into randomness.
Forehead always
pleated in suspicion.
Fat blue veins distending
from her hands seemed grotesque once
until I discovered
I have them too.

The phone rings, and I visualize her
as she stands discomposed
at the other end of the phone line.
I feel her ruffled movements
outside of me
a talent I retained
from my months in the womb.

Now she falls into her stance:
hunched forward in her way.
She complains
that growing old is a punishment
and questions me
of her crime.

She speaks in nervous circles
as her dark, round eyes flicker
afraid they'll miss a telling glance
a reticent whisper.
A lesson learned the day
she looked away
and he was gone.

Her voice is almost girlish
a falsetto shrill.
And still I wait eagerly, each day
for mother's morning call.



Lu Dumke is a writer and the Publisher of the The Bean Field Creative Review

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