The Call

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The call comes just as she closes her eyes,
the brown cat curled behind her calves,
the window partly open letting in a bit of spring breath,
a bit of early dark. A call from the blue room,
the cave of teenager, with its mirrored blanket
blocking the doorway, its collection of dust covered dragons,
the unplugged lava lamp. A call that pulls her
from the bed and flings her 
down the long carpeted hallway
swaying and grabbing at the walls as if on a ship
And now the winds have picked up
and the beams of the house and hull
creak beneath her feet. Coming!
she cries but her throat has closed.
And when she reaches the room
it’s empty. Brown tape and thumb tacks
on the bare blue walls, shadows rippling as the boat lists,
as the home tips. The call fades, 
‘mama’ lifting though the ceiling
and into the new night. She awakens
with the sound of it 
still wet on her cheeks.