Soft & warm
I dreamt about it again last night.
This time the terrorists dropped bombs
filled with Cyanogen chloride.
Everyone was wearing gas masks,
but it didn’t matter.
I was five years old when
I first realized I was going to die.
Now I’m older. But I still watch cartoons
on Saturday mornings and look at the comics
before I read the news.
My mother on the floor, spitting blood,
a bubble bursting, a terrible sound.
I yelled for my father, but I heard
only my voice calling back. It was then
that I leaned in and rested my cheek
on death’s cheek and found it to be soft
and warm. I felt tall and brave.
I gave myself to the bees and to the secrets
I never gave the chance to consume me.
My aunt returned home
My aunt returned home from church to find my uncle in the bedroom closet, his feet swaying a good two feet off the floor. She didn’t dare look at his face. She bent down and lay still beneath his feet, biting her bottom lip until she tasted rusted pennies. The world outside was mostly hushed, a little wind rattling the window. A car passed on the dirt road, stirring up dust, and was gone.
Tyler Bigney was born in 1984 and now lives in Nova Scotia. His work has appeared in Poetry New Zealand, The Meadow, Iodine, Neon, and Third Wednesday among others.
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