The Phone Call

A few years ago,
I got a phone call,
a voice from the past,
my ex-sister-in-law
saying my former wife
had died alone in a hotel room
in Las Vegas, She finally
took enough pills to do the job.

Then she segued
to her son, now a grown man,
You’re his godfather,
she reminded me,
he needs you.

I remembered holding
him as an infant
in a light filled church
somewhere in Orange County.

I hope you kept his grandfather
away from him, I said.

Within the hour he called,
telling me about his life
as a cross-country truck driver,
and how he struggled with
his own demons, drugs, and alcohol.

I didn’t have much advice
to give him except to suggest
he get into therapy and rehab,
and said I would pray for him.

Just before he hung up,
he called me Uncle Mike,
and I wondered if it
stuck in his throat
the way it landed in my ear.

But what bothered me the most
was the description of my ex,
dead in Vegas alone on the bed,
black garbage bags next to her
filled with newspaper and rags,
There was nothing,
really, in the bags,
her sister-in-law said.

But I knew better—
she filled them with her rage
until there was no room left.

The Face in the Mirror

You’re not the first person to tell
me the surprise you felt looking
in the mirror; the fine etched youth
turned to trenches surrounding your eyes;
a treasure of beauty and lust gone,
buried within a fading smile; seeing
your parents’ faces between the lines.
The last time we met, you said,
“I’m turning into my mother.
I didn’t want to, but there it is,
filling my house with antiques
and cooking her favorite foods.”
As if any of us could escape age or time
or see something new as the years climb.

Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections: Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing, as well as a new chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information, visit: https://michaelminassian.com