Prank calls to pay phones and 
times no one answered but the Minotaur.

In elementary school a pay phone
was the opening to a tomato sauce
can of urban legends and a suspended
reality that still keeps
me in the back of my closet
looking for lamp posts
or a rendezvous with angels--
the ones the Bible doesn't name.
It's the belief in the in the outside--
the belief in bleeding milk
and a Minotaur that walks in the
hall at midnight-- the sublime that
compels makes me want to walk
alone where there is fog 
in the morning-- I call it my 
own ascension but I never pretend 
to be a saint--

1. I called the payphone
we all knew was on Normal Ave. 
because I saw the number on ruler
from geometry-- I had planned to make
a prank call but not actually planned 
a prank call-- because I just wanted 
the sound of a voice-- I in fourth 
grade and nothing scared me
but I just starting to knew
what ugly meant-- it was like
my thighs and the worn insides
of my jeans.You didn't answer
but I pretended we talked about
boys and how sometimes 
I didn't like sleepovers 
because mornings without showers 
leave you feeling like sin.

2. I called the same payphone.
I learned to put orchids in my hair
and that sometimes I didn't like 
my own ankles. I learned that
cupcakes were greasy and that
telephones always remembered your name.
I called the same payphone
only this time it didn't ring--
it had been disconnected like all
the other veins into oblivion--
we talked about the back of my closet
and babies and blood in purple jeans.
I told you I didn't know what was
wrong with me-- but I knew I liked
orchids and I liked them in my hair.

3. I called you from the payphone
in the lobby of the middle school.
It was disconnected too like the last one
but it still felt good to ask where the helicopters 
were landing because I had become
acutely aware that everyone
would someday be taken away
in a helicopter in handcuffs or
in white veils made of sea foam--
I told you I knew I didn't like
anything about myself anymore
I told you I was ugly and that
you could arrange meetings with
angels but they never showed up for me--
left mist on the windows and told
me to keep faith-- called me
Clare and Catherine-- perspired 
on chocolate milk cartons.

4. I answered and it was you.
The pay phone on Normal Ave
where the wires were frayed and 
only connected to a kind of hope
we only ever found in payphones
and in stories about bleeding milk--
the kind of blood that doesn't stain 
purple jeans and doesn't remind
you how people melt like
campfires and go like fog morning
without calling to say goodbyes
over the payphone line--
And there was no one around but 
the people who read the bulletin 
boards outside the library when you called
so no one believes me that it
was you-- the Minotaur-- 
I had always been so afraid
and whose foot steps reminded me 
of the seams of my jeans--
And I was lucky to at least have
you to tell-- 
we've all needed payphones
to remind us we're 
not alone even when there's
nothing but the Minotaur and
the dial tone
of helicopter blades.