
Ghazal for the New Year
I try reaching my father on the landline twice,
Für Elise playing on the other end. He puts me on hold, out of reach.
The ground, a white sheet of frost. No tire tracks yet.
Even before I left home, there’s been a family I can’t seem to reach.
At a gathering once, my grandfather taught me to kill snapping turtles.
You drag its tongue out as far as it can reach and chop it off.
My words do not ring. I speak them in mid air as if sound travels
even if no one picks it up. There are people I’m still trying to reach.
And the thing is, words come out of my head jumbled like jambalaya.
I can’t just, write. When I’m not writing, I’m reaching.
World Lit prof: At least jambalaya is spicy. It’s exciting.
Can’t reach him either.
In the morning, I will not switch open the blinds.
Want to know what it’s like to stay turned off so you can’t be reached.