he cried when the doctor spoke of
owls in the morning and curdled milk,
moth balls and polyester in a thrift store.

did you cry at your diagnosis?
no, this elevator goes up once and
never comes back down.

he went to the river for me,
fetched me jugs of broken pottery
and put dirt on, smears of smut.

it lives where you live, this
eternity feeling of nothing
and wheezing cough like a lizard’s screams

Presented by McKenna Graf ’26 and Literary Magazine