Ex

He calls me and I don’t know why.

In my mind, when a thing is over, it’s over.

Revisiting a tomb to plunder it

Plucking the dull, ruby eyes off a slumbering mummy

Is sacrilegious and indecent.

Worse, it is inconsistent.

Still he drones on in that familiar monotone

As if nothing has changed

Forcing me – the exquisite desiccated –

To rise wearily and perform our old,

            Macabre dance.

His voice on the phone summons

The creature I was

Before I killed that daydream and put away the

Doll face he used to kiss

With glassy eyes.

Silly to mourn a face so tight and artificial.

Meanwhile, we make awkward silence

            Punctuated by jerky words that

Sting my tongue like novocaine.

I make an excuse and hang up the phone.

The kitchen sink is drenched in setting sun.

Sighing softly, I put the water on for tea

And remind myself to get caller ID.


 © Jane Park