Bound For
by Jill Mceldowney
after Ursula Le Guin
—lighting so angry half the lights floated blacked, flickered, came back
and I filled my bathtub with water in case of a true outage, an emergency-
emergency. Why were you
at the bottom of those pools that—in the dark--
beware me of blood? I look to the water. I see
you clawing at your own throat,
strangers promising
“He’s in a better place.”
What better—what life
after this—too late
for naloxone, too late for Heaven,
new earth. I sit here perpetually
inventing lives more terrifying to live--
as if reality were not enough. I hope you never know
how far, how deep
my grief dragged me—the everydayness
of walking empty
grocery stores, parking lots, quiet fluorescents,
the quiet telephone.
I think that I am alive—once,
you said “Lobsters,”
you said “—something with their chromosomes—”
you said “the only thing time does for them is grow—”
I think that I am alive now
because you are not.
If there is a world in which the dead speak, let them
tell me what it’s worth—your name is so difficult to say--
no one, no winged angel to raise you.
I hope to God you know a God who understands—how long
I held my arms open for you. I hoped to hear you. I hope--
I loved your voice, I love
what you told me.
and I filled my bathtub with water in case of a true outage, an emergency-
emergency. Why were you
at the bottom of those pools that—in the dark--
beware me of blood? I look to the water. I see
you clawing at your own throat,
strangers promising
“He’s in a better place.”
What better—what life
after this—too late
for naloxone, too late for Heaven,
new earth. I sit here perpetually
inventing lives more terrifying to live--
as if reality were not enough. I hope you never know
how far, how deep
my grief dragged me—the everydayness
of walking empty
grocery stores, parking lots, quiet fluorescents,
the quiet telephone.
I think that I am alive—once,
you said “Lobsters,”
you said “—something with their chromosomes—”
you said “the only thing time does for them is grow—”
I think that I am alive now
because you are not.
If there is a world in which the dead speak, let them
tell me what it’s worth—your name is so difficult to say--
no one, no winged angel to raise you.
I hope to God you know a God who understands—how long
I held my arms open for you. I hoped to hear you. I hope--
I loved your voice, I love
what you told me.
Jill Mceldowney is the author of the chapbook Airs Above Ground (Finishing Line Press). She is a founder and editor of Madhouse Press. Her previously published work can be found in journals such as Prairie Schooner, Vinyl, Fugue, and other notable publications.