Operator

by Maggie Su

I hate to tell you this, 
but you’ve been obsolete for years.
Everyone knows all the numbers
to all the telephones in the world;
this knowledge is a part of breathing
now. If I wanted to, I could call 
the mother of every single man
I ever fucked or fucked
over. Operator, tell me
if blowing hot air on a mountain
can save me from the freeze or if instead
I’ll die screaming in the avalanche.
Tell me if at the end of the day, you
go home and picture your days
lying side-by-side, barely touching,
vibrating like atoms in a dark room.
It seems simple to say
that loneliness is an empty bed,
maybe it’s a hunger
that can almost fill you.
Operator, last night, I dreamt
the merry-go-round horses
in the mall came to life and stormed
the food court, ate Panda Express
from the carton. I need you
to tell me what this means.
Operator, I can’t tell if you’re a robot
or not, but if you are please come to life
like I’m the nerdy scientist 
creating a hot girl in his lab.
When you breathe your first breath,
let the moisture condense on my face
and roll off like rain.

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