I decided to call myself

on the telephone, a black, heavy

Bakelite object fastened

to the kitchen wall, a coiled

looping cord hanging down.

Slowly, I dialed my number.

The thing rang, and a person

unknown to me answered

“Hello? Who is this?”

For a moment I could not tell

whether the words took shape

in the air or my head

or where it is that words

are born, in the earliest light

or in the questioning of the dark.

Do they flood up in a dream?

Do we only remember what

we think we say? I had not

thought far and deep enough

to answer, but I held

the instrument close and

this time because there are

so many voices inside me

I heard a woman’s voice

urgent and distraught—

“My God! Where in Hell

are you?” and I calmly replied

“I am in here. I am just calling out.”