By Derek Sheffield
Only one student left sitting among empty chairs, dark hair spilling down her back as she mothers her essay. Soon I will see my family. Over sweet potatoes, my sister will tell us of her dog and three cats, how Weezer scratches her ears and Ally drools when she purrs. My student checks every sentence from last to first where the lead is her son in prison, a slick of blood in starlight. My sister will say, Smile, and I will tell her to buy stock as she takes picture after picture as if to say, Here are the white flowers we can't keep. At the deserted mine, my student’s son wins the fight. He swings a pickaxe in paragraph two and drops to his knees, to the soft crunch of gravel. Last year she sketched all of us standing under a white sky and charcoal sun. Who will erase the child she cannot have? Who will blur?
Copyright 2015 Sheffield