christine hamm

The Call

every morning at 8 I get a phone call
sometimes it's 8:07, sometimes 8:10

it’s the same man’s voice, an urgent
message, telling me I need to return

the call if I care about things, people,
cars and the state of taxes, there’s

something I need to know, the recording
says again and again, this has been going

on for over a year, Saturday, Sunday
the same call, the same voice it always

cuts off before he gives me the number
when I pick up the recording just stops

and then there’s the disconnecting
click, my husband rolls over, half

in a dream, and says, yes, you are
pregnant, and I say, no, honey,

go back to sleep now

Naming the Animals

when I turned 21 my father told me
his real name

he taught me names are heavy keys
sour to the tongue

3 locks in a row down our door
bluebeard says to call him something new
the key is hidden under the doormat
the doormat says WELCOME bites
your fingers when you reach for it

my brother buried my name under a stone
when he was five

he was hoping to protect me, the Tonkas
and plastic swords made feeble guards

now when autumn comes I sleep all day
fur sprouts down my spine

sometimes I wake up sniffing the animal
tracks to the window

our phone has never worked
the words catch in our throats
and all we can do is point

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