Loading icon

Chowder

Poetry & Prose | March 23, 2015

Can there be a perfect distance
from the sun? If, as astronomy
suggests, there is an ideal number
of feet to be, safe between burning
alive and freezing to death, I imagine
it’s just a few inches from here. For me
to have watched her leave
she would have had to wake me up
because I sleep past ten, usually, and if
I know anything about how quickly
warm milk gets cool (I do, by the way)
she was out the door before six. The houses
on this street are connected by
nothing. No sewers, no cables, no
telephone wires. By the time I
get outside, her footprints have all
but frozen into the snow, like fossils I can
follow forward while I try to remember
just where exactly things went wrong. Birds
drop feathers when distressed, and I
use these plumes to pen “Lost” signs
for her
knowing, though, knowing how people
when distressed might forget to consider
the difference between “Lost” and
“Left.”

Art by Reema Al-Marzoog.