Wasn’t that your luck. Six foot four.
Father’s jaw pulled from stone.
Laugh deep and pained
as a phoenix’s death slash birth.
It was from that 90’s ski trip
I might not have been on.
The blurred edge of snow’s pale arms
wrap your legs, your dad’s Ford F-Series
just off to the side of the image,
as the sky shed its skin, as the single star
eclipsed your perfect shed self.
I must have been there.
Buzzed on shit vodka,
cheering alongside
the throng of friends, air so cold
the mass stain of our wet freezes
in unison to our underwear.
Father’s jaw pulled from stone.
Laugh deep and pained
as a phoenix’s death slash birth.
It was from that 90’s ski trip
I might not have been on.
The blurred edge of snow’s pale arms
wrap your legs, your dad’s Ford F-Series
just off to the side of the image,
as the sky shed its skin, as the single star
eclipsed your perfect shed self.
I must have been there.
Buzzed on shit vodka,
cheering alongside
the throng of friends, air so cold
the mass stain of our wet freezes
in unison to our underwear.
Years later, as you are crying
in the front seat of my car,
the din of the bar’s DJ
strikes the sidewalk in cold echo.
I put my hand on your shoulder,
finding so much sorrow and heat,
a perfect melting.
C.L. Liedekev is a writer/propagandist who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Horror Sleaze Trash, Television Religion, Open Skies Quarterly, The Red Hibiscus, River Heron Review, and Impspired. His real goal is to make the great Hoboken poet/exterminator Jack Wiler proud. So far, so good.
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