Voicemail Poems

My dad died and sports came back. We wore masks at his funeral to avoid being next, I guess. The night before Joe Kelly fired at Carlos Correa’s head and cleared the bench and I get it, because what other response is there to feeling cheated than bearing witness to your hate blossoming from your body, your spite-filled fingers gripping the splitting seams, your hurtling release spitting seeds that will line the graves of generational grudges. What song do you serve your ears the morning after your mom sends you home with a peace flower and you say goodbye in the dark because it hurts to see? So King Push pummels my skull as my jaw sits hollow and jagged, a haggard quarry of heavy stones and I stare at a cracked tree limb, angled 90 degrees in a non-committal breeze. And a bird cries like a rusty swingset and now I see the hurt has just begun to bloom. ————————————– Marissa DeSantis called us from Cleveland, OH. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile