Skip to content

5

The old man who picks up the phone

does not get your message.

Call again.

Please call again.

The cats leave squirrel guts

on the Tibetan rug.

Augury I cannot read.

You’ve got to talk with me.

I scrape glistening coils

into a dust pan,

spit on drops of blood and spray ammonia.

The blood spreads into the white wool.

I am so sick of purring beasts.

Don’t tempt me, old man.

Today I have four arms

and weapons in each hand.

Old Man Vacanas

Jane Munro

More from
Poem of the Week

Amelia M. Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk

human warmth

translated from the Ukrainian written by
Halyna Kruk
Ann Lauterbach

Count