The Wind Phone is Calling, by Lindsey Peacock

​The Wind Phone is Calling
​
Come,
dejected pilgrims.
Journey to a
humdrum prefecture
quiet seaside village
coiffed garden refuge.
 
A few panes
of cloudy glass
scrap lumber
rusted nails
spare eggshell paint
construct a coffin for grief
linking the departed 
to those left behind
those we lost to 
sweeping waves of disaster
and those we found
among the rubble.
 
Wade through swaying 
hip-height grass
reluctantly crack the door--
a squealing creak greets you.
 
Retreat into this
humble nook
shelter yourself 
from the salty breeze.
 
A
pen
notepad
onyx phone
await you.
 
Retrieve the receiver
twirl the numbered 
rotary randomly.
Don’t worry--
you’re only connected
to the earth you stand on.
 
Speak.
Pour out your loss.
Sob into blessed silence.
Update your dead about 
how your kid bungled a piano recital
how you miss the way your lost one scrunched their nose when they sneezed
how your mattress still sags in the shape of your lost one’s weary bones
 
Take comfort.
Your whispers on the wind
will d i s s o l v e
swallowed whole by the sea.

Lindsey Peacock

Lindsey Peacock is a born-and-bred Southerner who has called Canada home for the last 15 years. She's a recovering newspaper and magazine journalist and has been published in business and tech publications across the country. She's currently a first reader for ROOM Magazine and has had poems appear in Blood and Bourbon, Forget Me Not Press, Deep South Magazine, and the Wilderness House Literary Review.