You tell me about this noise.
A slippery crinkling – the miniscule crunch
Of boys in dark hoodies sneaking, sock-footed,
Over the leaves in the backyard.
Shadows freeze in a feline hunch.
But you hang up on me.
I am left guessing that you will next hear a window
Explode in a zillion slick shards.

You tell me about this piece of glass
From a broken coffee table – perfectly sharp,
A homemade surgical instrument.
You say how good it feels to drag across
Your flesh with hateful pressure.
But you hang up on me.
I am left guessing that it won’t take too long
For you to bleed out.

You tell me about the blood.
Vivid, viscous syrup, puddled on the floor
Of the garage under his gray head.
He used a little chrome gun
Which I insist you do not touch.
But you hang up on me.
I am left guessing that you honestly
Never saw this coming.

You tell me about this little chrome gun,
Spit-polished, cute as a toy,
Which was jammed into your neck
While he had his grotesque fun.
You stared down the barrel, unblinking.
But you hang up on me.
I am left guessing that you went – unfortunately –
To take a shower.

You tell me about the water.
So turquoise it looked fake – but coolly irresistible,
And she got through the fence, who knows how?
All alone, you had to pull
Your floating infant out with shaking hands.
But you hang up on me.
I am left guessing that you will die
A little every second ‘til she breathes.

You tell me about these rustles and wails,
This glass and debris, these blades, these bullets,
The water, blood and breath.
But you hang up on me.
The dial tone buzzes in my anxious ear:
I am left guessing your outcomes.
I guess, I act, I barely feel.
Physically disconnected - soulfully detached.