beth boylan / poem
Insomnia
after C. Wade Bentley's "Spin"
Forests are burning tonight,
fox-cry and cicadas choking on smoke.
I spell out words from conflagration: tragic, toil, torn—float;
alphabetize one list (plums, toothpaste, water),
then another (car, electric, rent).
Count my blessings, confess my sins, say three Hail Marys,
reach for the still-unread book borrowed from my father.
Distant sirens give me strange comfort,
and I like to imagine he lies awake hearing them too
(the world should have this kind of magic, I think).
Where does his mind wander on sleepless nights?
Snapping open his briefcase on a train to the city
or diving into the Hudson as a boy in summer.
I picture a dumpster and bags for the Goodwill,
filling them with old suits and swim trunks,
shuffled papers, everything we have yet to give each other;
my father padding through darkness
to the kitchen, filling a glass of water from the sink,
his throat on fire like mine,
burning, with everything we have yet to say.
Beth Boylan is a poet and high-school English teacher who lives near the ocean in New Jersey. She has been nominated for both a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize, and her poetry appears in many journals, including Rust + Moth, New York Quarterly, Broadkill Review, and Whale Road Review. She may be found on Instagram @bethiebookworm.
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