The Call Poem by RHODVICK LUSENO

I dialed with shaking hands.
That day, my voice was light.
"Mum, " I said, "I found her."
She laughed like she always does
when I sound full.

I told her about the smile,
how it met me before the words did.
How she saw me
like I wasn't trying to be seen.
She said, "Finally, my son has his rib."
We both laughed.

Weeks turned into something softer.
Memories started to stack,
one cup, two spoons,
shared playlists, long walks,
a future we planned
without checking the weather.

Now here I am.
Same phone. Same mother.
Different news.
This time, the call drags.
"Mum, " I say, slower now,
"She's leaving. Or I am. Or we both already did."
Silence answers first.
Then her voice, quieter than before:
"You'll breathe again."

But I don't want to.
Not yet.
The rib is gone.
And all that's left
is the ache
where it used to be.

> The Unknown Poet