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Answering Machine

Frank De Canio

Exhausted by the day’s tribulations,
I walk through my room, itching to unwind
its bloody bandages, redress its wounds
beneath the cauterizing sheets of sleep.
I don’t wish to emerge again from anesthesia,
wheeled to recovery from death’s dry run.

But a small light pulsing in the darkness
prods my tight-lipped visage -
armored proclamation of who I am,
impenetrable, even to worms.

With hope’s probing forceps, I’m delivered
half-sealed out of an envelope stamped:
REFUSED. RETURN TO SENDER.

For the machine’s message -
red-eyed mouse in a trap -
snuffs out morbid resolutions
like a sprinkling system douses
a kindling fire.

Called back to the squealing world
of the phone’s umbilicus
from the promise
of life’s internecine womb,
I take tentative steps.

Like a bed-ridden patient,
I sniff well-wishing flowers,
press re-wind and pluck the message
from the perfumed darkness.
A woman’ sweet voice piques my interest:

THERE APPEARS TO BE A RECEIVER OFF THE HOOK.
IF YOU WISH TO MAKE A CALL, PLEASE HANG UP
AND DIAL AGAIN.

Not believing in life after death,
I don’t think so.

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