It’s a peaceful Sunday in October when you leave the toast in the toaster, still popped up, never eaten, and throw the eggs in the trash, the pan in the sink, oily.
Something about a beeping defibrillator. She woke up and he was dead. He had been sleeping on the couch. Your uncle offers to come pick you up, even though you live two hours away by car. No. You’ll drive yourself. It’s fine.
A rotation of CDs in your old Chrysler. The subtle lift when you drive over the small humps past DTW, flying like a real-life Mario Kart power-up, a speed boost until Detroit city limits. You can’t really see the faded lines of the highway through the tears. Through the wail of I don’t know how I got here.
Why isn’t he still on the couch when you get there? His ears not yet pooled purple with blood, no splotches? Can’t you kiss that face goodbye? The fact of breath still realized. No changes from the inside.
Miranda Hency is a Brooklyn-based poet who holds a degree in English Literature from the University of Michigan. Her poems have appeared in On Loan From the Cosmos, The Oleander Review, and various zines throughout NYC. You can find her on Instagram @mirandahency and on Twitter @mirandacactus.