Phone Call

by Rebecca Villineau

When she died
She came right through the phone
Her voice
Static
A storm
Thickening
Leaves flipping their palms
The wind picking
Up by the sill
I like to believe
She sent a message
In Life, we held silence like bricks
Sometimes
The phone rings
And I’m reminded of
Marigolds
Instant coffee
And my mother calling
Then hanging up

Rebecca Villineau writes and works in the South Coast of Massachusetts. She works full time as social worker in a local hospital. Her writing is inspired by the ghosts that keep entering her poetry.