Symbols Crash Under the Weight

At the age of seven, I believed God 
to listen, my hands a corded phone

transfiguring prayers to voicemails. 
One night I fell asleep without

ending the call with the sign of the cross.
During my eight hours of silence,

wars were created & people begged 
for help, but God couldn’t be found

because He was bent over
an answering machine, listening
to me breathe.

At Sunday school, Sister Mary reminds me
selfish & Sonya both begin with “s.”

The hospital stacks voicemails
on my phone like I, too, am god.

Stephanie, a nurse, Nick, a PA, then the doctor 
himself reaches out—the holy trinity

of you have to translate to your father 
that we found a tumor. He’s refusing to stay 

overnight & says he doesn’t understand. 
Call us back. 

A boy I like teaches me to play
the drums, his hands warm on mine 
when he tells me it’ll be okay. 

My bare foot keeps time hitting the bass 
—it does not sound benign. 

Our drumsticks drown with uneven beats 
that make him smile 

as the rest of the world floods.
He hums a beat—bum bum bum pa 

bum bum bum pa bum bum bum pa 
—as we strike each communioned face 

for the distraction of rhythm. Listen— 
bum bum bum pa bum bum bum pa 

bum bum bum pa—my phone rattles a heartbeat
across the room. Try it again.