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The Phone Rings Once
By Arlene Ang
A small throat, but the grocery carts are rolling. I am a landmark: at least three women disappear from view when I open my eyes. It’s the holidays. The caller wants to know if I’m interested in buying a coffin. Dogs actually bite people for a reason. There is proof enough. 20% discount. The fog hasn’t finished shedding dead skin all over the windows. In anger, I once stabbed the cheddar with a fork. Who has time alone anymore? Ever since that power cut five years ago, it’s always been two a.m. on the phone. I’d never fall asleep dressed up as Marie Antoinette after the guillotine, but that’s how it feels like now—waking up to these nacreous lipstick stains on my pillow.
Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.
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