Voicemail Poems

They say it can’t be, but it is, perfect. What they don’t know is that clocks circle the drain like pasta water, unasked questions we both know answers for. After some time we actually did become psychic—I know another life flickers somewhere in your mind, yet you come home to guess at The Price Is Right. It says I have seen what God does and the endoscopy, and I could not find another crevice through which to love you—whatever hasn’t been said is whispered over and again as we hang in the blackness of the in-between dotted with blue, white, and red giants. ————————————– Sandra Marchetti called us from Lisle, IL. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems