By
the way, did I shout at you on the phone last night?
A
Poem for November 9, 2016
by
E.A.Nelson
When
the telephone rang, midway through
that
held-breath, teeth-grinding evening,
I
jumped up, stiff, to answer, said hello,
and
heard a pause, my name?,
a pause, my name? again,
another
pause, my name?,
and
into each pause, with mounting vehement despair,
I
hurled assurance that yes, that was my name,
demands
to know who might this be, calling so late
to
ask if I was I, and say no more. Only after the last pause
when
I swallowed a last demand and held my breath
for
a beat and let the receiver drop,
only
after I was hunched again in front of images
of
flickering numbers, stunned and flickering faces,
only
then did I remember the frailty of the webs
that
bind us, began to realize that the caller I had heard repeating
my
name? so clearly might have heard no word of mine,
began
to hope that this was so – that my shouts had battered not
some
soul too stunned to speak more than that single word,
but
only deaf, impervious ether. All next day,
in
gatherings with friends here, family there, in the midst
of
all there was to say, I kept repeating
the
story of that phone call, waiting for someone
to
say, That was me, I called you,
what
happened? No one did.
Unknown
caller, if someday
you
read this, let these lines be my apology.
I
grieve the conversation that we could not have
that
night, grieve more that fear and frustration raised
my
voice to a pitch I hope you never heard. There had been,
God
knows, enough shouting on the way
to
that night; no more was needed then,
nor
needed now. If you should call
my
number again, and hear, again,
once
you have spoken my name?, only a silence,
know
that this time I am not shouting.
I
am welcoming you, thanking you for your call,
inviting
you to say all that you have to say.
Yes,
that is my name. Tell me who are. Tell me
what
you want me to know, talk as long
as
you like, and even if you never hear
me
answer, I will be there. I will listen.
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