November 2012
Poetry
Times of Grace
by Emily O’Neill
When your name begins
a sentence, the story
won’t start without
fracture.
You dress as other
selves, but the shudder
in your owl eyes
stays.
I unravel
the distance between. Fall,
much colder for it. I miss caffeine
teeth, the train
echo grown
louder once leaves
drop. Sugared night
drives; cracked cement
pool; library floating
in flooded cellar.
The after dark.
The Porterhouse. Three
whiskey smile. Prying the safety
from your lighter. Sid
and Nancy, a lullaby.
I keep each memory separate so
they cannot argue about you.
You say
your grandmother has two
Bell Jar first editions,
that you’ll steal one for me.
Lead me to the kitchen
hands over eyes
to a green-keyed ’61 Remington
Portable.
I have seen you
dressed as other selves
and I do not believe
break. Circling a single question
too dangerous to attempt:
Who loves you more than me?