Accent


I finally had the dream I murdered my father.
I rang him to apologize, but no answer.
There was instead a new answering machine message.

There were harsh buzzing insects
sewn into the impression of my father’s voice,
the one that told me he was not there.

Had these bugs always been there,
stitched below his modest surface?
I rang again for another listen.

When he answered, I hung up.


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