I Answer My Mom

It wasn’t one of those
heavy-breather calls
I could humor for five
seconds and be done,
but a barely breathing call
forty years in the making.
At 1:30pm, on a
my small mom
was trapped far away in a
pink carpeted corner.
She was on the line
as the wolf thumped
on the downstairs
bathroom door.
A distant lawnmower
cut someone else’s grass.
On a second line I called 911,
naming the wolf–
spelling out his
first, middle, and last
as an order of protection
three days later
mom would ask
if she could crumple up.
Her right eye still black–
not even yellow.




  1. You’re inspired and you inspire. Achingly beautiful work.

    • Oh man, from inspiration to perspiration…my next blog entry. Sweat and tears leave me pretty salty, as do your gracious words. Thanks.

    • I found it difficult to describe, so I’m glad some things didn’t get lost in translation. Thanks for the comment.

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