The Call

By Jessica Lake

In this life to receive a Call is rare.

Who it is that calls I do not know.

A messenger speaks his speech

And the speech upstages the speaker.

My Call was clear.

Born a boy—you will live a woman.

Nonsense.

I am already a bark overladen

With cargo rare and worthless.

One more to many is one too many.

Cargo drowns ship—

Ship drowns crew—

And all is lost.

I cannot.

But on the night of that day,

Sorrow stole within my walled garden,

Crept up the trellis of withered roses,

Slid into my warren,

And laid her hand upon my heart.

In denying the woman,

I wounded the man.

Not to bleed out at once,

But with time and nuance—

A death of drops,

Not of liters.

The mind stays sharp,

The last to go—

A death that lingers,

Chaining body to soul.