poetry book
I used to
lie on the floor for hours after
school with
the phone cradled between
my shoulder
and my ear, a plate of cold
rice to my
left, my school books to my right.
Twirling the
cord between my fingers
I spoke to
friends who recognized the
language of
our realm. Throats and lungs
swollen, we
talked into the heart of the night,
toying with
the idea of hair dye and suicide,
about the
boys who didn’t love us,
who we loved
too much, the pang
of the
nights. Each sentence was
new
territory, like a door someone was
rushing
into, the glass shattering
with
delirium, with knowledge and fear.
My Mother
never complained about the phone bill,
what it cost
for her daughter to disappear
behind a
door, watching the cord
stretching
its muscle away from her.
Perhaps she
thought it was the only way
she could
reach me, sending me away
to speak in
the underworld.
As long as I
was speaking
she could
put my ear to the tenuous earth
and allow me
to listen, to decipher.
And these
were the elements of my Mother,
the earthed
wire, the burning cable,
as if she
flowed into the room with
me to
somehow say, Stay where I can reach you,
the dim
room, the dark earth. Speak of this
and when you
feel removed from it
I will pull
the cord and take you
back towards
me.
—Leanne
O’Sullivan