|Jan/Feb 2018 Poetry Special Feature|
Textile Photo Art by Jeffrey Trespel
New to School
They told me to hold her hand on the sidewalk all the way, and I did, I did. The sky was bright but all clouds, so the silver car was hard to see. I told them it was like the one I lost in sand, under the tree in front of the house where grass never grows. They asked me how she could have slipped from a brother's hand with no notice, no fight. I didn't tell them I was dreaming of being alone again. That I was glad for a pulling apart that left me only looking at what can vanish. Later, when a tired teacher, reading, read the word Portent, I rose to the sound of it, and saw the little buckles of her shoes.