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Summer/Fall 2002

Poetry by Mark Dietzen

On Finding My Brother Sick

The snow-white, plastic phone rings beside
            my old bed.
The harsh, shrill noise like a knife cuts through
            my weary ears.
Tired eyes are locked behind heavy eyelids.
Nobody ever calls at this virgin dawn—
            something is wrong.
Hand jolts to the receiver—the bearer of
            bad news.
Eyes still closed, the hinges on the angry
            shutter stuck.
Dr. Williams softly speaks in a low tone.
I hear my scared mother cry “Oh God.”
The shutters violently fly open.
Crimson red alarm clock bleeds 6:10.


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