Poetry by Christin Hardee
After Heather June Gibbons
And its sixty-three moons are like
the day before a tree loses
its leaves in Autumn or
using your dead grandmother’s
phone number for Walgreen’s rewards
points or like the pile of dishes
stacked on the radiator
next to the bed. Like seeing pictures in the
hair on the wall as you sit down
in the shower or thinking
about all the beaches a seashell
has seen or watching trees learn
their branches as they sway. Like the
Lady Bird Johnson exhibit at the
Bush Presidential Library or hiding
your breathlessness at the top of the stairs
or like telling your parents you’re not coming
home for Christmas for the first time. Like
listening to the sound of a tea kettle boiling
in the air conditioner or when your
nails are just a little bit too long or
or like watching a candle flame dance
as a woman sings across the street.
Like missing your mother’s cooking
but not missing your mother.
