Yvonne Garrett, BA English, Smith 1985, is currently finishing her MFA
in Fiction at the New School where she also works full time. A long
time East Village resident, she has worked in the music industry,
film/tv production, and sports/entertainment. She is the Associate Prose Editor at LIT (the New School's Lit Journal) and assistant to the Editors at Barrow Street. Her poetry and fiction has been published in, among others, The Baltimore Review, Thema, Spire, poeticdiversity, Roux Magzine, and HeartLodge.
On a bench near the crumbling sidewalk
in Jerome I watch the sun slipping into darkness,
the last light pink and gold against the Rim.
A spider’s web tears slowly
in the wind rising from the valley below.
I’ll tell you where I think I put him,
the blueberries wet in his hands -
This is where I see him in my dreams -
Standing in the dirty street
before the aftermath of an inferno -
the hallway downstairs filled with smoke
& by way of consolation
he handed me the bourbon bottle
then dropped the matches on the sidewalk.
I peered through the broken glass
at the moon eclipsed.
The neighbors howled and raised their glasses
to the flames.
There was no pounding of heart – there were only lungs laboring
against the twin jackboots of smoke and fear
I still hear his whiskey-logged voice,
What we choose to make matter is arbitrary.
The wind sways the web
and I close my eyes to breathe.