true story

 

when I was three my mother left the room,
for higher ground, found the attic window,

reached for my hand.

the day I was born
my mother killed herself,

no,

the day my mother was born,
I killed myself,

remember?

I call her up, in the early afternoon,
my father answers the phone.

I can’t think of anything,

I breathe heavily and hang up before
remembering the caller ID.

he calls back.

I act surprised, say,
I kept saying hello, couldn’t you hear me?

why can’t you hear me?