The once-monthly obligation was the phone,
a plastic conch shoved into her young palm,
static ocean carrying her English
over eight time zones to Borneo and reaching
this aunt or another with a name plucked
from the Bible, changed by accent,
laughter not needing translation
as it surfaced. She imagined this
as her mother’s revenge for supermarket corrections
on pronunciation, throat now clotted
with the tangled seaweed of words
made meaningless. She can’t blame her
for the relishing of this silence.
In the end, the girl would flee, the instrument
surrendered and an outheld hand
putting things back where they ought to be.
Michelle Brittan Rosado