paper cup telephone
My brain is a paper cup telephone
connected by string to the neighbor’s house.
I am a child speaking big and small secrets in
for safe keeping. I tell it my height and weight
in case my body is lost. I say all my favorite words,
so it will hold forever the sound of my voice holding them.
I won’t tell you them now. You might give them away.
The paper cup in my hand is a trumpet,
a music box, a metaphor. It becomes a beautiful ear.
When I talk into it, it’s like I’ve climbed inside.
I imagine my words building up, gathering charge,
then shooting their lightning across the string
to whoever’s on the other side. An elephant?
A God? Some other perpetual motion machine?
What I’m saying is I’m still here,
sending storm after storm.
Like the one summer as a child
when I would bring my mother
glasses of water she didn’t ask for.
I think I was taking care of where I came from.
That same summer I learned about fireflies.
They appeared in the yard like distance,
like humming. Singly, then in whole strings
along the night. I learned how to follow them,
to move quietly, to bring my hands home around one
and become a lantern.
The story I’m telling you
is the story of becoming what I am.
When I whisper in the paper cup
then hold it to my ear,
I’m reading the sky again for fireflies.
I’m listening for the flash.
I’m becoming the light—my hands yellow-gold against the dark.



