(1940– )
Call Out
three quick ringsin DetroitHi Ma it’s your son
What’s the matter?Are you OK? onlymy fifth call homein eleven years
I’m leaving the seminary,said out loud for the firsttime impossible to breatheback in those fatal wordsrehearsed for three weeksafraid to break her heartsix monthsfrom the altar of Godher only son offering Massjust for her to pass throughthe gates of heaven repay herfor all those yearsshe lugged bushel uponbushel of other people’s washinto her home boughta mangle burned her righthand ironing fasterand fasterto keep me out of Ford’sRiver Rouge foundry
Did you lose your vocation?Lose? like I lost those woolgloves she sent me for Christmas?lose as if I actually owned it?lose forever never to find again?
I’m just not cutout for this lifeain’t that the truthnothing but the truthcertainly notthe whole truthsilence about the votecast by all the priests brothersseminariansin perpetual vowsthree spare no’slined up behind the firstblack ball
© Leon Markowicz
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