VOICEMAIL POEMS - Summer 2025

My dad died
and sports came back.
We wore masks at his funeral
to avoid being next, I guess.

The night before
Joe Kelly fired at Carlos Correa’s head
and cleared the bench
and I get it,
because what other response is there to feeling cheated
than bearing witness to your hate blossoming
from your body,
your spite-filled fingers gripping the splitting seams,
your hurtling release spitting seeds
that will line the graves
of generational grudges.

What song do you serve your ears
the morning after your mom sends you home
with a peace flower
and you say goodbye in the dark
because it hurts to see?

So King Push pummels my skull
as my jaw sits hollow and jagged,
a haggard quarry of heavy stones
and I stare at a cracked tree limb,
angled 90 degrees
in a non-committal breeze.

And a bird cries like a rusty swingset
and now I see the hurt
has just begun to bloom.

————————————–

Marissa DeSantis called us from Cleveland, OH.

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"Bench Clearing" by Marissa DeSantis

I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was new on the lake. Streaming through the murk, the cellar scent of blue and brown water, and you, my new love, saying nothing, only rowing us backwards deftly. At the lake’s deepest point: a miniature goose—a full grown adult, though not five inches high, resting on an island of ice, mid-June. Tenderly I scooped it. Its feet were frozen in a lump of ice, but it stood on my palm as quiet and unmoving as you, who waited with paused oars, seeming not to care much about the goose, but caring about my care. I rubbed my fingers over the ruly bird’s webs to warm them, and the ice melted all shiny and dewy as the goose stared into the distance, patiently or bluely, I could not tell. The goose free, we moved on. 

//

Tuesday night I felt a stabbing at the bottom of my foot; ignoring it I woke in the morning to the same pain and could not run. You sat with me in the dining room and took my foot in your palm and tried to maneuver the splinter out, spaded with your tweezers the dip in the soft spot of the sole, right beneath the ball, asking, “Does this hurt?” I wanted to answer, “Yes, and I love you,” but I could not tell you I loved you while you held in your hands something so rude as my dirty and wounded foot. You could not remove the splinter, but with time it came loose on its own, or else the soft cheek of my sole grew hard enough to enclose the shard.

————————————–

Devan Murphy called us from Pittsburgh, PA.

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"The Goose: A Diptych" by Devan Murphy

Lake Berryessa, azure at our backs       the man from       Toluca slips me
lozenges from under his tongue            Spanish alive        in my mouth 

touches the screen reaching deep          lights from his      phone plays me
my first cumbia:                   chee          chih                      chih

woodsmoke unfurls decomposed	   flesh dusted          bones awakening
at his cue turning slight curving            threaded                magnets loop        

khee ki-ki khee ki-ki khee ki-ki           each scratch of       rake pulling me
into the earth thrumming his                hand at my hip       la guira’s song

tethered ancient spine’s pulse              hungry, touch         the heart of before
knowing how to fly, certain                 feathered                tz sts sts tz

————————————–

Tatiana Chaterji called us from unceded Ohlone land in Oakland, CA.

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"First Cumbia" by Tatiana Chaterji

"There is a look one sees,
the mouth somehow desperate–
…
the fear of death, taking as its form
dedication to hunger…"
	- Louise Glück

b/c one day i will want for nothing
b/c one day i will not want
b/c one day i will need nothing to want for
b/c one day my body will cease to function
b/c one day my body will function outside itself
b/c one day my body will cease functioning as a vessel for causeless desire
b/c one day my body will cease desiring cease to function
b/c one day the flesh of the earth will clothe the body’s naked hunger
b/c one day i will feed off nothing but the dirt’s choicest cuts
b/c one day the dirt’s best nourishment will stonewall the body’s needing & wanting
b/c one day i will become dirt
	my gut become dirt
	pelvis become dirt
	hands legs spinal column become dirt
	skull cavity encompass dirt drawing down dirt to become
		dirt
one day 
b/c the hungry ghost of my body seeks grene pasture & stil waters
one day 
b/c feeding the 5000 remains a miracle, not a reality
one day 
b/c desperate measures leave ample room for development
one day
b/c 2Bd / 2Br Luxury Apts resign us to dirt
b/c the PIN #: **** issues DECLINE 
	& no other

	b/c a woman’s body is a grave
	b/c the rectum is a grave
	b/c the coffin of my body cradles your body
		it will accept all manner of things

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Diandra Williams called us from Philadelphia, PA.

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"decline mantra (aldi at 46th and market)" by Diandra Williams

if you are sad: sit, silent, and bathe in the brine of an olive jar. let the salt consume you till you are preserved in acidity rather than memory, and the blood in your veins might well be that of the ocean. if they ask you how it happened, say: “i didn’t know how to swim.” this is false, but so are the teeth they blatantly lie through. (you do not owe them the truth if they don’t give it to you. do not sacrifice your bitterness for these saps.) return to the olives. swallow the pits: wrinkled fools have no place here, at least not since he died. stare as they swim around your plate, reminiscent of almonds, and remember how he taught you that the amygdala handles emotion. maybe by overconsumption you can erase all you ever knew. when asked, say he was your mentor. when asked, say he was kind. when asked, say you’d do anything to see him again. the olive jar says you should take only nine, yet seventeen have passed through your teeth. it is okay. it will all, one day, be okay.

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Annabelle Chen called us from Milton, MA.

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"guide to melancholy (ft. jar of olives) by Annabelle Chen

Three weeks to Christmas. We bide our time 
on the line by conjuring posties of the past—
side-burned and handcuffed, the ones in ‘81
who dared to defy back to work orders. 
Got the whole country maternity leave. 

Now we fight traffic in trucks that hit 40 degrees, 
deliver an endless stream of Sephora and Nespresso,
spend hours alone with the clang of keys on metal,
compete with the Amazon drivers for free 
parking spots and as we pass each other on the street 
they sometimes stop to ask:
It’s a good job right? For the benefits?

A good job is any job that keeps you out of a tent.
We probably wouldn’t defy like the legends of ’81,
too many struggling with groceries and rent.
Here’s the talking head on the news again.
Sound bites smooth as the 300 thread count shirt he has on.
As if we are a private business, not a rusting crown 
corporation. Meant to serve all citizens of the nation,
including its workers who are crippled by inflation.

Every postie’s got a side hustle and a secret dream.
Lauren sews crafts to sell on Etsy.
Reg DJs weddings and Sid drives a taxi.
On Fridays, management makes movie popcorn
to celebrate the end of the week.
Why are we always so hungry? 
The smell of fake butter is rich. 
We follow it. We eat.

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Jaime Jacques called us from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

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"Keep your Popcorn on Fridays, We Want a Living Wage" by Jaime Jacques

Poetry via voicemail. Missed calls you need to hear.

Open submissions accepted.
Guidelines at http://voicemailpoems.org