Would I Change All I Know for Unknowing
by Daniel Barnum
east where you’re never going back. houses
on the hollow. drinking enough to kill
yourself. teenage bullshit. wanting to kiss
your best friend. twilight of the tire iron.
dad yelling you’re not sick, are you? deer down
the trailway at season’s end-of-slaughter.
in piles. unreal as your fever feels. path off
of that same road, where mom broke her
arm one winter. fell on february
ice. didn’t realize for days after–
said that it hardly felt like anything
at first. lamplight from our neighbor’s front porch;
windows spectral the woods’ leafless maples.
in memory, this all happens more than once.
*
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in memory, this all happens more than once:
windows spectral the woods’ leafless maples, the lamplight fits from our neighbor’s front porch. they said they hardly heard anything through the ice. didn’t realize for days after. gone one winter, well into february. that same road where mom had broken into her unreal. pile-up of fever dreams. no path out from that season’s end. the slaughter sound of dad yelling. I’m not sick deep down I think, lit in unironic love for my best friend. he tires of me. our teenage bullshit. he wants to kiss girls down at the hollow. I’ll drink to kill off east coast as point of no return. that’s home. |
*
in memory, this all happens more than once: east, where you’re never going back. houses.
windows. spectral, the woods’ leafless maples on the hollow. drinking enough to kill
the lamplight fits from our neighbor’s front porch. yourself. teenage bullshit. wanting to kiss
(they said they hardly heard anything) your best friend. twilight of the tire iron
through the ice. didn’t realize for days after. dad yelling you’re not sick, are you? deer down.
gone one winter, well into february, the trailway at season’s end-of-slaughter.
that same road where mom had broken into pieces. real as your fever feels. path off
of its unreal pile-up of fever dreams. no path. the same road where mom broke her-
self out from that season’s end. winter like an army. slaughter. the february
sound of dad yelling, I’m not sick. deep down, ice. didn’t realize – for days after
I think, lit in unironic love for my best friend. he tires. says that it hardly felt like anything
with me. our teenage bullshit. he wanted to kiss first. lamplight from the neighbor’s front porch;
girls down at the hollow. I’ll drink to kill windows, spectral the woods’ leafless maples,
off east coast as point of no return. that’s home. in memory, this all happens more than once.
Daniel Barnum lives and writes in Columbus, Ohio, where he serves as the associate managing editor of The Journal. His poems and essays are forthcoming from or have appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Offing, Notre Dame Review, RHINO, Barrow Street, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere