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Hobo
fingertips slicing figure eights in the styrofoam cup wanting to jump out of my skin and leave it where i won’t have to worry about it ¾ where i can leave and stay where i am thoughts skipping like scratched cassettes piercing peripheral gaze pulling you close to fend you off
-- Autumn Turley |
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Time to Go
Your kid brother keeps whining, "It’s not fair. I want to go, you get to do everything."
You continue collecting your gear. From outside the walls you hear gunshots, mortar blasts as festive as a carnival if you didn’t know better. You doublecheck your backpack.
You’re not scared, it’s time for you to go.
You tell your Mom, "Don’t cry." She has a knife in her ruined hands, You know she wants to make you a sandwich—if she could—if it would help. She almost speaks.
You say, "It’s OK."
"It’s not."
“Then," you say, "It will be OK soon."
"You don’t have to go. It’s not too late. Your father didn’t go until he was much older."
You kiss her on the top of the head as you hike up your backpack. You tell the kid, "You’re the man now. Don’t blow it."
The kid wags his tail and says, "Can I send him off? Can I? Can I?"
Your mother looks away, goes to her room and closes the door.
You strap yourself in, close your eyes and say a prayer, as your brother cuts the cord. You’re catapulted into the air: over your house, over the wall. You didn’t expect the beauty. You think, this is the last thing your dad saw.
You pull the detonator and make a sound like fireworks—like the fourth of July as you fall towards them
You hope it helps.
-- Adam Jeffries |
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Issue 2 |
