late at night
her blankets feel like a womb
and it's only the green glow
of the alarm clock
that keeps her from floating
into the universe.

casting her thoughts
adrift into the dark,
they're fumbling blindly (for the numbers: 7-6-7).
she turns her cheek
into the pillow
and she says:

"Hello, I'm calling God -
is there anyone there?"

and in that moment -
teetering on the precipice,
disbelief's breath warm in her ear,
whispering, whispering -

she holds her breath.

a phone rings
a light flashes purple
and a receptionist presses the 'hold' button.

(Sir, it's another one
- she's an unbeliever.)

(What does she want?)

(To believe, sir.)

but whatever God's reply is,
it's too late:
she's already hung up, tired
of the engaged tone of heaven,
so high (it is a recording of the angels singing)
it passes for silence in human ears.

no dial tone sounds:
after all, she can't call someone who doesn't exist.

can she?


AN: Guess what 7-6-7 spells on your phone?