The last time you called, we didn’t turn on
our faces. Your voice, like grapefruit, each bite
a surprise, woke something in me and I
didn’t know what to say. I made sounds, umm,
hmm, ahh, hmm, as I matched your quiet breath.
And I felt alive in a way that I’m not.
Angus MacCaull has writing in Prelude, CV2, filling Station, The Review Review, Hamilton Review of Books, and Ricepaper Magazine.
He is also the author of three picture books. He lives with his family in Nova Scotia, where he works in communications and serves on the board of the Writers’ Federation.