Maybe I’ll Call
The mouse I haven’t been able to induce
to nibble from the poison blocks I deposited in the dark
crevices of the back apartment skips out of earshot
as I talk back at the phone text I send to the woman
who insists on taking everything I utter as insult.
“Meant that as a joke,” I text back when
she takes on herself to reiterate her original plaint,
a decidedly not serious one, but perhaps meant as conciliatory
for her previous day’s reply to my text informing her of a
local protest in support of something we both believe.
“Thanks for the info.” And a thumbs-up. And, no “love you” back.
I loathe Hallmark movies, but I find myself envying how
masterfully their writers wraps up the jangled resentments
and misperceptions shared by a mother and daughter.
There is no deus ex machina like a heart issue, but life isn’t a movie
and past hurts and recriminations, never forgotten or forgiven, fester in the wires
of every phone call.
I’m not a terrible daughter. She’s not a terrible mother.
We just have script disagreements.
