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 Contents | April 2002 In This Issue (Contributors) More on poetry from The Atlantic Monthly. From Atlantic Unbound: Interviews: "The Art of Living" (February 6, 2002) In her first poetry collection since a near-fatal accident, Maxine Kumin celebrates the forms that life and writing take. Also by Maxine Kumin: Oblivion (2000) The Word (1994) The Nuns of Childhood: Two Views (1992) Continuum: A Love Poem (1980) January 25th (1965) Grace (1961) |
The Sunday Phone Call
by Maxine Kumin .....  Hear Maxine Kumin read this poem (in RealAudio)Drab December, sleet falling. Dogs loosely coiled in torpor. Horses nose-down in hay. It's the hour years ago I used to call my parents or they'd call me. The phone rings. Idly empty of expectation I answer. It's my father's voice. Pop! I say, you're dead! Don't you remember that final heart attack, Dallas, just before Kennedy was shot? Time means nothing here, kiddo. He's jolly, expansive. You can wait eons for an open line. Time gets used up but comes back. You know. Like Ping-Pong. Ping-Pong! The table in the attic. My father, shirtsleeves rolled, the wet stub of a burnt-out cigarette stuck to his lower lip as he murdered each one of my three older brothers and me yearning under the eaves, waiting for my turn. You sound ... just like yourself, I say. I am myself, goddammit! Anyway, what's this about an accident? How did you hear about it? I read it somewhere. Broke your neck, et cetera. He says this vaguely, his shorthand way of keeping feelings at bay. Now I'm indignant. But I almost died! Didn't I tell you never buy land on a hill? It's worthless. What's an educated dame like you doing messing with horses? Messing with horses is for punks. Then, a little softer, I see you two've put a lot of work into that hunk of real estate. Thanks. Thanks for even noticing. We love it here. We'll never sell. Like hell you won't! You will! Pop, I say, tearing up, let's not fight for once. My only Poppa, when do I get to see you? A long pause. Then, coughing his cigarette cough, Pupchen, he says, I may be dead but I'm not clairvoyant. Behave yourself. The line clicks off.
Copyright © 2002 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved. The Atlantic Monthly; April 2002; The Sunday Phone Call; Volume 289, No. 4; 59. | [an error occurred while processing this directive] | ||
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