Snow layered the grass upon waking. The baby
loses his hand in his sleeve, cries out. We don't
forget. After this sentence, I'll avert
my eyes. Our longing for illustrations
between pages, a list of figures,
as cloth-torn clouds hand me over
to wind. We wintered here for some time.
A sound cracks the ice, thinner than we thought.
Howling becomes long halls, shaky ink lines.
The sleeve loses stitching: exposed, hangs.
22 Years Later, You Never Worry
about capitals, that you didn't get
to Tokyo, live in St. Louis instead.
Your mom and I celebrate
Thanksgiving in the Toyota,
headed south on I-55. Wish we'd
been there, but I know your husband
took care of you. Still,
when you're our age, alone at home,
the message it's a girl! is enough
to restart the cycle, the worry:
head-on collisions, blizzards, births
gone unlike you hoped, interrupted
by well-meaning midwives wanting
to weigh the fruit of your labor.
Lucas A. Street is a first-year student in the University of
Wyoming's MFA program. A recent graduate of Knox College in
Galesburg, Illinois, he now lives with his wife and two young sons
in Laramie, Wyoming.