Poetry by Lydia Buzzard

       Paul Sableman CC




CALLING CARD
 
My big sister scrawled phone numbers
on the back of Sears & Roebuck price tags
taped them to a calling card I could use 
from a pay phone or a neighbor’s house, any
place they would let me in; so if things ever 
got bad enough, I could sneak out the back,
run down the hill, Call 9-1-1 first, and then 
you call me. How will I know? You will. 
Tucked into my Pokemon cards, inside 
a tin and in turmoil, tilted back and 
forth, tinging me closer to safety.
A silver strip hides sacred code—to reveal
When the dishes break, he leaves marks,
your walls rattle. Scratch your secrets to the light like some
lot-in-life lottery ticket. Hold it up to
the fortune machine; dream of somewhere
better. I heard some boomer say that no one
knows what calling cards are anymore:
only immigrants still use
those things, I think they’ve
always been for people
running from places
they should feel at home.

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Lydia Buzzard is a medical student and writer raised in Western KY. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. You can visit her on X at @lydiabuzzard.