October 17, 2012

Christina Stephens

State Road 60

“Let’s go,” I said,
attempts to see each
part of my body in
the rear-view mirror
commemorating mile marker seventeen
and my apathy.
do you remember the holes
in our plan
how the metal bent around us;
you never screamed.


The slow lowering of scripted condolences,
my brother is crying
for god knows what reason.
When I wanted to grow a garden,
had it all planned out—
strawberries and puppies,
a plant required too much effort
so my mother suggested an alternative.
We went to the store
and she said
“pick anything you want”
the ceramic dog
still sits on the windowsill
collecting dust and the soft tread
of old tires.
I choose the parts to absorb
the rest become adornments
hidden away in attic boxes,
hung on Christmas trees once a year—
dragging them out of storage
in an attempt to remember
their weight.


Christina Stephens is finishing her BA in English at Portland State University, but afterwards who knows as wandering comes freely and frequently. Her writing has appeared in The Legendary and Pathos.

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