The bell in the telephone ringing, that was the call
to the fairy realms, these places of abiding.
A thunderstorm drummed the day to soot.
“Marsha’s dead,” you sobbed, but
the sob was more of a shout.
The line crackled, and I was sure
rain had bled into the phone lines.
A darkness opened: a dark circle
opened. In my mind, electrical burns stained
your fingers. Little jolts flickered into my ear
charring stars into the flesh, tattooing
a constellation of scars so that I could always
find my way back.