by Debbie Theiss
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| Tattered sleeves mask healing scabs, yellow bruises spread paths, crisscross across soft tissue on the inside of his forearm. |
A stretched out neckline falls, between her breasts, a gold locket rests midway. A knotted blue bandanna constrains graying hair. |
| Orange ill-fitting shirt and pants hang on his slack body as if trying to shed skin. His fingers — nails split, crusted blood, tips gnawed. |
Catsup stains marked the discarded
apron that drapes her flowered dress, cinched with an elastic belt. Gnarled hands rest, nails |
| He grasps the phone, two-fisted grope, dials the number. Blue smoke curls around him, cigarette butt glows fiery orange, burnt ashes fall. |
Her cigarette smolders, a shrouded, gray-filtered cloud settles in the room. She inhales the smoke, sweet and bitter. Leans her head back, closes eyes. |
| The phone rings three times, then four – her message plays, his raw heavy question left in return, “Mom?” |
The phone rings, she refuses to pick up, the number she recognizes, the prison. A blinking light, one message left. She presses the button to play, hears |
| Silence. Then click, lifeless dial tone. What he meant to say, “I’m sorry.” |
his voice choke, then silence — “What did he say?” |
Debbie Theiss (Lee’s Summit, MO) grew up in the Midwest and finds inspiration for her poetry in the unfolding art of daily life and nature. She has poems published in I-70 Review, Skinny Journal, Kansas Time and Place, Interpretations IV & V, Connoisseurs of Suffering: Poetry for the Journey to Meaning from University Professors Press, Postcard Poems and Prose, Star 82 Review, Weaving the Terrain from Dos Gatos Press, and others.
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