This Call Is from an Inmate at a Federal Prison

They say you eventually get desperate
enough to call a stranger, someone

who’s added her number to a database
for the incarcerated, someone who’s

even more alone than you. It’s amazing,
they say, once you’ve picked a name (other

stats sometimes provided), the numbers
you dial clink like bottles meeting

in a sea. Each distant ring is a pair of whirring
lips held millimeters from that ticklish

spot in the curve of your ear. Will she have the high,
lilting voice and self-possession of the weather

girl on the radio, or will her Hello
scrape and knock like a stone being winched

out of a well? And what do you say when she
actually accepts the call? Is it to her that you admit

you’re not even sure freedom is what
you want anymore? They say not to say

anything, just listen to how sorry
she is about your situation. It’s important

to close your eyes. The breeze she says billows
her bedroom curtains won’t reach you, drunk

on the way by ghosts, but the shiver
you’ll get is, you know, more than you deserve.