poetry by Susan Volchok

Yahrzeit/May,1990

The ways we are

A flickering in the kitchen.
Of course.
What else did I expect?
Closed my eyes; must have slept.
Then—something.
(Nothing.)
Something
Like a ghostly telephone
rrringing in my head
as the heavy, black
night table phone had rung out,
three years ago,
three-thirty a.m.,
three paralyzing rings.

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