Voicemail Poems

Double-check you have not morphed into wax. Are the appendages protruding from the trunk of your body still soft skin, or have you hardened your armor like they taught you in eighth grade when a car flattened your cat at your Christmas party? You cried. You watched as he twitched and his insides squelched onto the pavement, and when he became still, his body stiffened. Still, with tears, you hauled him home. It was hard. They said “you’re ruining the party with your moping,” so you plopped by the Christmas tree. It was hard, was it hard to wake up this morning and find your skin had not hardened like exoskeleton? You are still soft. Still tender. It was tenth grade when your grandfather requested you be pallbearer at grandma’s funeral. You couldn’t bear it, the weight, the load. The corpse, it was caked in makeup to mask the blemishes from Her accident. She was not herself. You grasped her hand—it was hard. It was like wax, and when you squeezed her hand farewell, you left an indentation. That was hard. To se