The Telephone

“Its frayed cord
a web of
dead roots.”
—David Trinidad, “Black Telephone,”
The Best American Poetry 2010

David was born—
With a caul around him,
A rag of membrane
Pressed tight & thin as
Family Bible tissue paper.

The South Dakota midwife—
Said that usually meant
That the kid would have
Psychic powers like those
Forces behind Sandover.

My lover David Jackson—
For some he was mysterious
Like you had to be Stanley
Deep in the interior looking
For David Livingstone.

Even his marriage’s failure—
Left him on happier terms
With his wife than before.
He had the golden touch,
The other world his friend.