Payphone
My mother gave us each a quarter & with grave
sincerity, said, If you get scared, find a payphone
& call for help. We were about to ascend into the cab
of my father’s navy pickup—our father who tends
tomatoes, cans peaches, washes each leaf of each
houseplant with a toothbrush in April.
There was no reason to fear our father.
But this is hardly a poem. The poem is: my father, barking
beartrap of a man, whiskey growling & it’s only noon. His rage
a neon tendril bursting from seed as he slingshots
a clay pot at our tiny bodies. We are rushed
into the house. Gathered behind a door.
Calls are placed. Plans are made. A cloud
of hushes sweep over our farmhouse.
Even then, I knew he didn’t want to hurt us.
He told my mother he would go to anger management
& he did. But that day, my sister & I, clutching hands,
clutching coins, as our whiskey-soaked pulsing love
bomb of a father drove in the direction of the general store
singing about how he would buy us a new
bike helmet; baseball glove; reading lamp. Our fear
so hot, that quarter melted like wax. If I had to,
I, nine years old, sharp as a tack, could figure out how
to pour liquid into a payphone, but who would I call
for help when my father wasn’t home?
*
Yoda Olinyk (she/her) is a writer, editor, and workshop guide from Canada. Her work has appeared in many beloved journals, including Rattle and The Shore. She has published a memoir about restaurant life and is working on her next book.
