as silent and holy as an empty church. a polished row of pews. you, moon in the sky, how do you do it? your one-handed gravity holding still the earth. astral magic trick, you newly christened old god. every family’s forgotten dance is a scar on your surface. memory like a bear trap. worldfodder magnet. wise old sledgehammer once smashed through our orbit longways. we were just a pie cooling on the galactic windowsill. now we say Light & mean your face, stretched our whole lives and once reached your shadow. pockmarked queen of all ships. all flags. can’t sing a note of worship if it doesn’t include a word of pain. the night sky’s opening bell and serene last call, nursing your craters like old wounds nursing your craters like children. your face held high and regal through eons of the same steady bruise and somehow you arrive to us with a bouquet of escape of routes. i have so much to learn from you, and not just about physics. how long did it take you to learn such luminescent confidence? your brilliant backlit halo, the way you just float and move everything, shine your own ligaments to dust. when people say they love each other to the You and back, is it about distance or about damage? about some man’s lonely footprint? and what do we know about damage next to you, anyway? all our blood clots thick with time but you have no winds to whisper your name. sometimes the healing does not rush through you. prehistoric ocean or otherwise. there are no channels you didn’t cut yourself. no way to say Over in the dead space. no one there to hear it but a silent star. and a billion other stars. ————————————– Zachary Goldberg called us from Oakland, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

remember bodies at night how they glow how they bend into us like refracted light the memory of where a body was after it has left its phosphorescence you cocoon into the spaces around things find yourself in auburn eyes and hazel skin the red that flows from you you learn that aloneness is a softness a sky that pulls you through you see bodies as they are things that love you and then stop when you wake up it’s heavy water write down the deep green blue feelings like paua shells there is a pale existing in your head a light moving in your hair behind a colour in the lunar month you return home the whenua moves its arms up to greet you climb up the hill to see the faraway beach feel lonely like mislaid keys it’s good to be there in the quiet saying to yourself i’m real i’m real as the feelings inside shrink red into shape ————————————– Stacey Teague called us from Clonakilty, Ireland. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

yeah i’ve got a lighter. can fix your filter. give you honey stick secrets and light tight roll laughter when you call me blue dream like your favorite strain like your favorite character ramona you know the blue of your dreams? yeah they’re both pierced. few things hurt so good like a needle. addict in a cute way. smoker with a toothbrush. dreamer with insomnia. liar and a poet. dream girl without problems. will ignore your worst for a sprinkle of the same. won’t shut the cartoon off till you ask for the remote or a shaved head. will lay alone with you and all of the dirty dishes. or i can wake up pretty if you want me to. i can be your party now and your home in the morning. feed you jewels of deep red pomegranates and suck the stains from the bed sheets. let you call me by any name you want when you fuck me. lick your wounds so you don’t have to. pretend you don’t have them until you don’t. and i will say goodbye before the jump so you don’t have to see me splatter. or if you want, i could rewrite the closing scene. i could change this to a happy ending. i can make you everything you want. i will make me anything if you ask me to. ————————————– Taylor Jaczin called us from St. Petersburg, FL. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

In the palm of my hand I harbor Fault lines, one-way streets, A famous bridge half-crossed and Another I steered from the passenger’s seat While the driver smoked weed Such honking dreams in the patchouli, Of frolicking unhindered, of Slapping my feet in my Sunday shoes Down my aunt’s hardwood hallway. The earthquakes always come. I’ve cracked off into the ocean. Every day’s dawn yawns a Salty horizon, and the fog rises off the water And the fog rides into town, and the fog bowls me down, And sits on my chest, reading off a checklist of regrets I am so thirsty And my irises are turning gray and It never snows in San Francisco no matter what The souvenirs say. ————————————– Caroljean Gavin called us from Winston-Salem, NC. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

A man in a powder blue suit offered to tell me my future on Olive Avenue. When I tried to say no, he said Baby, please, in a way that told me that he might know something that I didn’t, so I held out my palm. I used to hold out the same palm on the playground for other girls to read. They would tell me that I was destined to have five kids and a loving husband. Maybe a mini van. They told me my future with such certainty that it was difficult not to see some truth, some sincerity, some genuine desire to wish a happy future upon each other. So I believed them. The man on Olive said he could see Los Angeles and its sprawl. He could see me there, too, but he wouldn’t tell me what I was doing without another five dollars. I looked happy, though, he said. Happy in Los Angeles and laughing in the sun. There, in Fresno, I sought to find an intersection of these futures. ————————————– Mariah Bosch called us from Fresno, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

I stay in bed til 2 then get up and open all the windows. Make coffee and walk around the 5 x 10 space I call my living room. Turn my attention to the postcards and photographs on the fridge. Stare hard at all that evidence. Whisper: See, there’s no reason to be lonely. Smoke one cigarette and then another on the steps out front. Begin to cry over my own good luck. I never told you this but the truth is I would follow you to the edges of any map. I never told you this but that’s what scares me. And it’s not just that I love you. More often it’s a mixed melody of the same idea, which sounds quite a lot like: thank you. Forgive me one last time. Come back. This time I mean it. ————————————– Sara Hutchinson called us from Santa Cruz, CA. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

I. I fall in love every time I fly. Leaving Dallas: the medical student wearing headphones and a full headscarf just to forget her be-planed predicament. Above Tucson: the sorority sister with the strawberry hair whose father is waiting at the baggage claim; they leave, arms over shoulders over arms. In Denver. The woman in security: her bright eyes contradict the softening skin on her hands like Kleenex, like my mother’s. I desperately want to be travelling away from here with someone, with one of these walkabout-women at my side on a midnight-plane to anywhere: companionable silence, holding hands in anticipation. II. My parents call from twelve-and-a-half hours in the past to tell me that when they dropped me off for my flight to Seoul on the way out— they saw a woman striding confidently through the winding Sea-Tac security, carrying what they were sure was her whole life on her back, Emryse. She was going off somewhere. On her next adventure. I like to imagine her lived-in day-pack, her tried-and-tested shoes; her threadbare smile. I like to think she was happy because they told me they knew that would be me, one day, and they told me she had been alone. ————————————– Emryse Geye called us from Portland, OR. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

When are you going to move closer? The space aches between us. It invents its own language. The jagged edge of the ocean paints the sand dark, retreats into its own swollen urge, arcs forward to tease the shore with the inexorable inevitable that drives my hands into the unwritten dark to pull the tide of you over me. Drown me, roll me against you. Make me your pearl. ————————————– Tria Wood called us from Houston, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

Sons blushed and became soft peaches in the hot backseats of cars, never even wanted the front seat. Or, I was the son, but it’s nice to be plural and grand and count the dandelions in right field as friends, which I picked in the ancient way of boys who’s fathers tried to metaphorically light fires under their asses, there I go again, I was the boy, who was mediocre at boy at best, first boy, if it makes a difference being a minute closer to your father’s father, and I don’t remember if I plucked maybe a little out of spite because my dad told me metaphorically to quit picking dandelions, or if when he mentioned them they sounded like pixy stix in the outfield during a tee ball game, which due to the smallness of five-year-olds mostly happens very close to home plate, and dandelions pluck so satisfyingly like plonking open a can of coke (let us use plonk’s secondary definition of playing on a musical instrument – the coke tab – laboriously or unskillfully) and their frilly heads spin when you shush them in your hands like you’re warming them. If you build it then some of the angels will come to plop down in the outfield, finger the dirt and rest their heads on tender blades while the pop flies pock the earth around them. ————————————– Andy Powell called us from New York, NY. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast

When you’re out in the sticks - the woods are a fortress - sunlight stabs down at you in bright daggers - I bet no one told you how a canopy is like armor. I had a place in the woods where rules couldn’t touch me - little warrior boy with sticks beating up all the full grown men that ever left mama broken. On the ground with a jar of bugs - benevolent demigod me who only knew enough to tear out earthy pieces of the woods and shove them in. Love is often a tearing away - open heart surgery featuring pieces of us that don’t fit - and a partner who can play dead really well. I played house - made a time machine too - went back in time - made mistakes - I must have - how else did playing house get so hard all of a sudden - why else would everything be my fault? I preached in two different churches at the age of eight. I forgot the God is love part - was too busy memorizing bible verses - writing fire and brimstone sermons. Whenever I was on my way to an ass whooping - I always wished I was someone else - someone strong enough to put the switch down. Did you know hide and seek isn’t fun at all - if one person suddenly decides they don’t wanna play anymore? When you grow up and the woods can’t hide you - you learn to disappear on the inside - you try and make yourself a fortress. Best I could muster was a jar of ripped up roots and leaves - with a bug that knew how small he was - who was much loved - until the day he wanted out. ————————————– James Barrett Rodehaver called us from Dallas, TX. SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast