Roll Call

By | 1 November 2016

When you call my name
When your lovely voice enters my ears
I sigh and run.

You kept talking to me
Although my tongue was dry.

I traded the dog we raised in the yard with the neighbor’s dog. I dragged that dog to the mountain and tied it to a prickly, castor oil tree. In the yard we prepared a big pot. Struggling, the dog escaped.

Come here, come here.
Slow tone, rhythm uncertain.

The dog who hid somewhere runs toward its owner—does it believe in the love it has for the person that understands it? The one that understands me is the one that ties me up. That smell is the blood of my name being called.

The dog is passed back to these excited people. This time they watch until the dog is beaten to death.

People push and pull each other on the wooden bench.
The dishes and shot glasses are downed
And in front of the empty dog house, a few spoons of dried rice.

My dad calls me and I go up to the roof. Beyond the corn fields is a new highway. Beyond the flowing clouds there is only the sound of frogs in the river valley. I long for nothing.

Even if you call.
Even you with the wings.


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