ManicDDaily

Seen Not Heard

Any strange voices who’d call her, she was quite sure,
would just dial Cherry 8
for she did not see herself
as a girl who heard voices,
even as she leaned the much-loved bio
against her plate (her fork in the road
an actual fork, her road, the re-read
pages)
even as she lived beneath their cover
in bed and bath,
felt a certain loyalty
to royalty (mispronunciation tending to imbue the Dauphin
with the sweetness of Flipper),
she knew that Joan’s was not
her path, her retinae too weighted
by suburban streets to glow
so gonzo–

Only knew that she craved a life
that moved in circle, shaped
a plot (narrative not
pit), tick audible,
where halos might be dialed down
to shackles, yet still keep
their shine,
where she would be
both onlooker
and star–mouthpiece and that dark bit
you held up to
your ear–
where others too
would surely be on the line–had to be, honestly,
to make the whole thing
worthwhile–

it didn’t have to be Joan–
printed words coiling connection
to Jo March too, and sickly Beth,
Abe Lincoln, Scarlett, Juliette,
Madame Curie,
even Beethoven (who looked so sad in the pictures,
deaf)–

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Very very very drafty poem for Shay’s prompt on rotary phones on Real Toads