The Voices of the Dead

 

The Voices of the Dead

by Dawn Pisturino

A gale sweeps down the valley,

Carrying the voices of the dead.

Within the ivy walls of the old graveyard,

A phone rings inside a faded red telephone box.

If I pick up the phone, what will happen to me?

Nobody knows I’m here.

I walked from the village tea shop,

My walking stick in hand,

Lulled into a sense of security

By the sound of your voice calling my name.

“Simon, Simon!” you cried, and I responded.

“Coming, my love!”

I tore a handful of flowers from a public garden

To bring to you, my heart beating in my chest

With wild expectation. Twenty years!

That’s how long you’ve been gone,

And I’ve shuffled around in loneliness ever since.

I pick up the phone and hold it to my ear.

A faint muffling sound teases my senses,

And I strain to hear the unintelligible words.

“Louise. . .” I murmur into the receiver.

“I miss you.”

I hear you crying on the other end of the line,

And then you’re gone.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!