Sean Woodard

Candlestick Phone

 

“. . . like sunlight, sunset, or anything so ephemeral,

just like our life, we appear and we disappear.

And we are so important to some,

but we are just passing through.”

—Before Midnight

 

Lounging on a loveseat in an elegant parlor,

surrounded by guests in gowns and tuxes,

I listen for the ring of a candlestick phone

that rests upon an end table in the hall.

 

When the bell sounds, I step outside,

draw oaken parlor doors shut behind me.

I lift the earpiece from its latch, press the cool

nickel-plated brass against my ear.

 

The operator answers,

voice tinged with a transatlantic accent,

as she patches through your call

with clicks and an electric hum.

 

And then your voice slices through stagnant air—

a soft hush breathing unspoken truths

that had laid dormant in your chest.

I listen. Each inflection casts an illusion

 

that we are in the room together . . .

But Westminster chimes interrupt our reverie.

The rustic grandfather clock’s iron hand

has traversed the golden dial.

 

Restless guests approach the parlor door.

We must bid each other goodnight,

return to our separate spheres.

The line must go dead, the phone laid on the latch.

 

 

Sean Woodard's writing has been featured in miniMag, Hush Lit, Screenshot Lit, Black Poppy Review, and South Broadway Ghost Society, among other publications. You may follow him at http://seanwoodard.com, Instagram @swoodard7326,and Bluesky (@swoodard7326).