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      March 24, 2012TelemarketerBrett Garcia Myhren

      I’m reading on the couch
      when she calls, asks for me by name.
      I smile at her scripted intimacy,
      imagine her cubicle with photos of pets,
      the long bend of light
      on her lacquered nails.
      “Listen to this,” I reply,
      “David kissed the soft inner banks
      of women’s thighs.”
      “Pardon?”
      “Oh, there’s more,” I say,
      “Thighs like loamy earth
      that cup the rivers, or lilies
      blooming in rose and mint.”
      “Is this a bad time for you, sir?”
      “Is it for you?
      Tell me something,” I insist.
      “Tell me anything.”
      A quiet unfolds between us
      as though we’d spent our breath
      on withering arguments
      or lost it
      in the scented air of sweat.
      Finally she says,
      “I’m in Lincoln, Nebraska.
      Outside, leaves are turning
      in the cold.”

      from #25 - Summer 2006

      Brett Garcia Myhren

      “Writing, at least as it applies to me, is more like an infection than a conscious decision. Though it’s hard to say exactly when or where it began, I remember taking a poetry class in college and reading a poem called ‘Keeping Things Whole’ by Mark Strand. At that moment, I realized that poetry was different than what I had expected.”

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