She’s been sitting in the passenger seat of my car for a week.
She won’t wear her seatbelt and she won’t come in at night.
She just sits in the driveway,
with the windows rolled down
until my neighbors call the cops, and
unfriend me on Facebook.
I told her I’d drop her off somewhere,
give her money for a bus.
But she just sits there,
Listening to NPR when her throat gets sore.
I’ve got to get rid of her. She’s starting to scare the kids.
Patricia Callan lives in Beverly, Massachusetts with her husband, two young daughters, and their numerous imaginary friends. Patricia is pursuing her M.A. at Salem State University and is the current Fiction Editor at Sounding East, the university’s literary magazine. She enjoys poetry prompts, really dumb podcasts, and eating whole, peeled lemons.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.