Wire
The child said
our line is empty, no
dial tone, no hum
though we'd spoken to you
over the river
not minutes ago,
laugh that thumped
a diaphragm beneath
the ear piece
as shuttled magnets
interrupt
an electron stream
to approximate
speech
**
With wind coming on hard
in the woods, thighs gashed
through pantlegs by berry wands
I follow the line
in its smooth black rind
looping without poles
over branch stubs or dragging
low through leaf wrack
a mile from the junction box,
touch disconnected leads
with electrodes on a multi-meter
set for ohms
seeking infinity
which I find; then
with the house side re-joined,
test for continuity --
not found; then eventually see
the storm-split cherry tree
that severed the line
**
Slice the cable sheath
unwrap those shining threads
in its core to re-entwine
long ago, the metal called Cyprian
a pair of filaments
thin as eye lash
yet miles in length
dug from slopes above town,
our old Elizabeth Mine's yield
perpetually re-employed,
smelters to rollers to wire --
when pure, dazzling
in conductivity
through my fingers
the current resumes
low-voltage, textured
like velvet to an ear
at the far end,
and here we
hear the scrambling chime:
it's you, voice
in the receiver
transfigured, complete.
-- Jim Schley
our line is empty, no
dial tone, no hum
though we'd spoken to you
over the river
not minutes ago,
laugh that thumped
a diaphragm beneath
the ear piece
as shuttled magnets
interrupt
an electron stream
to approximate
speech
**
With wind coming on hard
in the woods, thighs gashed
through pantlegs by berry wands
I follow the line
in its smooth black rind
looping without poles
over branch stubs or dragging
low through leaf wrack
a mile from the junction box,
touch disconnected leads
with electrodes on a multi-meter
set for ohms
seeking infinity
which I find; then
with the house side re-joined,
test for continuity --
not found; then eventually see
the storm-split cherry tree
that severed the line
**
Slice the cable sheath
unwrap those shining threads
in its core to re-entwine
long ago, the metal called Cyprian
a pair of filaments
thin as eye lash
yet miles in length
dug from slopes above town,
our old Elizabeth Mine's yield
perpetually re-employed,
smelters to rollers to wire --
when pure, dazzling
in conductivity
through my fingers
the current resumes
low-voltage, textured
like velvet to an ear
at the far end,
and here we
hear the scrambling chime:
it's you, voice
in the receiver
transfigured, complete.
-- Jim Schley
