Sam Pittman considers the relationship between poetry and more prosaic forms of communication in this father-son poem.
—
Communicado
I read poetry on the phone
with my father. To be clear,
he talks, I read and nod
in whatever thick air swathes
my cell. Nodding, of course,
to no one. Working? Hot here.
Hot there? I’ve learned
to nod with my throat,
from the back, mouth not even
open, the closed start
of under. Not just read
but write this poem
with hard lips latched
from the young inside.
Not that he doesn’t believe
in balance, not that
I do, but he jingles off
his box of jokes, I stay
still, my throat grinding
him into a silent verse.
***
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