Waiting by the Phone

I’m fifteen again and hung
over the side of my parents’ bed,


my long hair sweeping
the old green carpet, skinny legs


straight out, making angels
of bedsheets. I’m wanting a boy

to call me back, to call me

his baby his little chicken his


sweet garden


where I grow like the compost heap
below this window, my body

made of lettuce scraps,
bean shoots, clippings

of grass. This afternoon, it’s the same—

a window left open, my hair
again sweeping detritus, dust. You,

your voice not a black cord

I wrap around and around


myself, but a cracked
screen, a dimmed light

and I’m tired of the power I give
you in this waiting, know


that my wanting is your favorite

pastime, your favorite part
of me. I carry


you in my pocket, throw you on
my red couch, sleep

with you on the nightstand
next to my hand lotion, glasses. You could

say I’m theatrical, say all my lines are

cut. I should shove you into a drawer,
finish breaking you.