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By Emilia Phillips

My story’s told in the mis-dial’s

hesitance & anonyms of crank calls,


in the wires’ electric elegy

& glass expanded by the moth


flicker of filament. I call a past

that believes I’m dead. On the concrete


here, you can see where

I stood in rust, lashed to the grid.


On the corner of Pine & Idlewood,

I’ve seen a virgin on her knees


before the angel

of a streetlight & Moses stealing the Times


to build a fire. I’ve seen the city fly

right through a memory & not break


its neck. But the street still needs a shrine,

so return my ringing heart & no one


to answer it, a traveler whose only destination is

waywardness. Forgive us


our apologies, the bees in our bells, the receiver’s

grease, days horizoned


into words. If we stand

monument to anything,


it’s that only some voices belong

to men.


Source: Poetry (November 2015)

  • Activities
  • Living
  • Social Commentaries

Poet Bio

Emilia Phillips
Emilia Phillips is the author of Signaletics (2013) and the forthcoming Groundspeed, both from the University of Akron Press. She teaches at Centenary College and edits interviews for 32 Poems.

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