Landline

When you said you’d call,
nothing
but the telephone
throbbed,
gripped
my attention.

The walls
peeled away, pulled
all the furniture
and appliances
(even the refrigerator)
out of sight.

When you called,
there was nothing
but your voice
thrusting
your thoughts.

When you bade
goodbye
for the last time,
the telephone
dropped
its persistence,
then presence.

Your voice
lingered, though
no longer calling
my name.

(And the refrigerator
crept back into
the kitchen.)

Karlo Sevilla is a freelance writer who lives in Quezon City, Philippines. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Philippines Graphic, Indiana Voice Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, Radius, Yellow Chair Review, Jazz Cigarette, Wraith Infirmity Muses, an Origami Poems Project microchap, and in the respective first anthologies of Peacock Journal, Riverfeet Press, and Eternal Remedy. He also coaches wrestling, trains in Brazilian Luta Livre, and does volunteer work for the labor group Bukluran ng Manggagawang Pilipino (Solidarity of Filipino Workers).

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