Written years ago. Need to work on this. It’s sort of an orphaned poem. I have a lot of them. Seems to be on the theme of grief and trauma, lifelong themes for me.

Orphans 

Caller ID makes my orphans tale

harder to maintain: 

strays, I should have said

or urchins or waifs or things.

But orphans had a better ring

and I’ve always had a dramatic fling. 

Why didn’t I answer the phone? 

California calling again, fourth time.

Same number, perhaps, but no voice.

It must be brother of no name, 

the if university calls,

tell them I died, 

if ex-wife #1 calls, I’ve been dead a long time

brother. 

Listening to him I would imagine

robin blue eyes, that Slavic nose I’d think I’d seen

out of the corner of my eye in the Loop but no,

California, it must be.

This time I write down the number before

hitting erase, and I wonder why I wish to remain

orphaned—I simply do not claim parents—does he?

Old days–

A decade older meant magic and mischief to me

this brother of science who found 

worlds under rocks, worms, salamanders, toads–

unusual creatures in the swamp

strange crustacean like moth birds

bats at sunset, flying away from us 

and into the coming dark. 

Crickets. Never hurt a cricket, brother said.

They might one day sing for you

in a gold cage, when you have no one, 

when all have left you. 

Sometimes brother 

was the stump on the prairie path

on my way home from school—how did I explain to

the other children that we must walk 

around the stump?

Back home, he’d ask if I heard tales of the 

escaped prisoner who scared small silly girls

who did not have big brothers

to protect them.

Fifth call, California, a cracking male voice

sang: Happy birthday to you, Sasha, 

Happy Birthday to you, cha cha cha.

And still I did not pick up the phone.

How much vodka could $5 buy, I wonder

imagining the clear liquid in my one

lovely etched glass, imagine me slamming

the glass, then drinking all in one gulp

like father used to do, over and over and over

and I stop. 

A pencil will do. A last night of brotherlessness

will do as I plan a return call. Perhaps we will 

reclaim our orphaned state, perhaps not.