seen
what did you think of me / that sun soaked september day / sweat beading our backs / only 9am / you told me what you thought of me / in the cold and rain of charles de gaulle / i didn’t talk to you or smile / i made you worried / somehow you thought i would make your life harder / i wonder what it is / about this face / that makes people wonder, worry / you know now i did smile, just barely / and i said hello, stealing glances when you weren’t looking / always better at listening than speaking / you learned that eventually / quickly / i will always listen / and if you ask i will speak / once you told me / you were afraid of fire / afraid of forever / afraid that loving who you loved / meant punishment / i looked at you / legs crossed on my couch / both of us dripping with borrowed time / i smiled then / i could never picture you burning / only warming rooms / without trying / only showing me / how to be brave / in languages i barely spoke / one of our last nights together / we spent in violence and joy / our bodies hurled and heaved in every direction / shot into the stars / we were the only ones brave enough that night / even if we had to hold hands and close our eyes on the way back down / swearing we would never step foot on that ride again / playing with our lives / i hope i made your life sweeter / the way you made mine / endless laughter in the kitchen / plantains and mangoes / the one who seemed to understand me most even when you knew me the least / i know what i still think of you / separated by state lines / i will never regret that city / even if it whittled me down / i found you / i came out polished / i know what i think of you / still / still / still.
A gift that keeps on giving
Did you hear about your dad?
My boyfriend asks,
not my mom,
not my sister,
not a call, voicemail,
not when it happened,
a text hours after.
A Kansas City hospital has another warm bed,
not my father, but the woman he hit
blowing through red lights
not the first time, or the second.
I know he didn’t mean to
but intention doesn’t stitch metal back into
a 1965 tempest,
back into bodies,
back into daughters.
I’ll spend my whole life bracing
waiting for the next red light,
the next slam of a door,
another hospital trip,
more dishes in the sink,
the next forgotten birthday,
I’ll spend my whole life angry
wishing on stars
that things could be different
that he could be who I need.
He is reckless
with more than steering wheels—
with time,
with trust,
with the fragile geography
of two daughters
learning that love
is like standing on a curb
or the shoulder of the road
bracing for impact.
Brienne Garner
Brienne Garner is a sophomore nursing student at Rockhurst University. She plans to work in the ICU and eventually attend graduate school while simultaneously pursuing a career as an author. She is currently an editor for The Squawk in the fiction department and when she’s not buried in a textbook or working on a new short story, she can be found teaching her dog new tricks, rereading her favorite books, and glazing pottery.