Warhol’s Telephone

(to David Wojnarowicz)

contact contact contact whispers the
urgent thumb on the touchscreen, an
arrow pinning your avatar to my

longing skin. So unlike the shaded dish
of hope on Warhol’s telephone, holding
intimacy at a remove. And then it rings

and speaks inspiration: risk your finger
in the spin of the rotary dial cage
and you will free yourself from the

silences of the interior life. Who wants
a risk-free connection anyway? Talk
to me, tether me in the mesh of you,

your words, remind me how you
rendered me speechless with inarticulate
love, how I only knew myself thanks

to your digits whorled around my body,
your patterned chatter turning my
orgasm into a cord that cannot be

unplugged. Who’s at the end of the line?
Only the fine-minded ghosts of who we
were. I would call God, but without you
I only have memories of nothing to say.

Rishi Dastidar

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