Lily always stayed away when I visited 

with the stars, and asked my father-who-arten-heavn 

to put gramma on the line. A moment’s pause 

to make the transfer, then my thoughts sieved

straight through my skull. They blew away on the airwaves.

Tender flesh pressed itself flat, the only warmth

in a wholly cold affair. Black glass received the cheek, the only portal

to a world of distant flares and far-flung family members. My one plea 

stagnated in the night air, modestly offered, yet unheeded night after night. 

A sign, a sign. 

A word of wisdom, or whisper of wind.

A sign, a sign.

Window pane witnesses don’t bend

to the will of the weak-minded. When I whispered

that I would wait for gramma’s answer, my tongue grew grimy

with duplicity and propagating sugar bugs. Time enough remained 

for grubby fingers to smear a thousand streaky hearts, 

each drawn from the same breath that filled those glass 

lungs (vacuum-sealed shut; shattered prematurely), but

when Lily’s doll eyes glazed over, I found my cheek peeling

from the pane perfunctorily. My resolve found precedence

in Lily’s eager glass eyes and ready replies. And besides, 

gramma told me it’s impolite to leave a guest waiting.