It was the year that stranger took up in our front room and left wadded-up gumballs in the ashtray. Outside the window, there was a hole in the earth, and I’m not just talking about any hole, I’m talking about THE hole. Remember how we carried our grief around in gallon-sized Ziplocs and Sharpied our phone numbers into our scapulas lest we be forever lost? My brother flew in to count bone shards on his abacus, but mostly I remember standing in the kitchen with a dead man’s pretty wife, how she chided me for putting the spoons so close together in the dishwasher. What we thought were birds were not birds, but smoke was smoke, and even if we had wanted to, we couldn’t have seen past our hands. I fingered SAVE ME into the dust on a windshield. Inside, the laughter grew boozy, and the dead man’s young daughter—she looked an awful lot like you—curled up at my feet and played possum. It would be months before I realized that I could be the one to carry her to bed, and more months still, before I found the courage to gather her into my arms. Even now, among the foxes and the trees, I can see the light burning over the Hudson. Can you?
Nicole Callihan's first book of poems, SuperLoop, was published in 2014. Find her on the web at www.nicolecallihan.com.
Nicole Callihan's first book of poems, SuperLoop, was published in 2014. Find her on the web at www.nicolecallihan.com.
