1. I was ten. I had to run away
to clear the screams from the receiver
while my sister bled into a towel,
and our dog, now a strange animal,
charged at the door with murderous intent.
2. It was never dialed,
but the cordless phone found a new cradle
in the thick marsh of the pond out back.
Marble-eyed sunfish observed as
I was sent with snorkeling gear to search till dusk
but found only nests of dirt.
3. A drunk motorcyclist looked up at me from
his back as blood clotted like wax on his swollen head.
My own voice sounded unfamiliar
spelling out the road name under pooling lamplight.
Macaulay Glynn is a graduate student in English at Binghamton University. She was editor-in-chief of the Keystone College literary magazine The Plume for two years and is a three-time recipient of the Edward Cameron IV American Academy of Poets prize.