Broken Watches

I want to dig a hole and bury you in it.
I would fill it with every moment,
every passing second,
every thought inspired by the mundane;
I would bury them with you so I could sleep at night.

Sitting in church and sympathizing,
“Shucks, Jesus, that’s quite the cross.”
I know a thing or two about burden,
but we’re not allowed to compare.
Blindly believing our hypocritical oaths:
the cunning cult of Catholicism.
And I see your face in stained glass windows
and wonder if you make it to Mass on Sundays.
See, Jesus is my homeboy,
and He hears all my complaints.

Driving to work at seven-oh-nine,
fresh coffee and morning deejays,
first cigarette of the day.
I am all bright eyes and bushy tails.
The talk show chit chat gives way to harmony,
a piano tune and a sad singer.
I start to sing along.
but there you are hiding in the chords.
See, you’re the skeleton in my closet.
you’re the bullet hole in my heart.

And I could dig holes or I could fight wars
but neither would bring me joy
like your evaporation into space.
To forget that you existed.
to forget that you were here.

4th of July

We are five and playing in the dirt again,
smearing dust onto your white shorts that
match your striped shirt and
the hats my mother made us wear.
My dress matches you like my childhood matches yours.
They dressed us for performance so we
always gave them a show.
We are five and riding in your red Power Wheels
in the middle of the street like grownups
while the crowd’s wave and cheer.
We are winners,
taking home our toy trophies.
Our faces photographed for local rags,
our youth captured in sepia tones.
We ride merry-go-rounds
and toss ping pong balls into tiny fish bowls
and eat cotton candy
and watch the fireworks, and
we are five.

We are nineteen and there’s dirt on your shoe-
a brand-new Nike you keep polished to perfection.
We forgo the Ferris Wheel because
of the time I got sick on you
and you walked home in a too small t-shirt.
Instead we sit in a yard, we drink, we shouldn’t-
we do anyway,
our celebrations hazy for some time,
not the crisp clear blue of age five.
We laugh at the same jokes,
we finish each other’s sentences.
You smoke but I don’t and I watch it
curl to the ceiling,
leaving clouds where there once was sun.
We are nineteen,
and you’ve left your mother’s house in search of something
but I stay behind for fear of falling.
Late nights and long walks
and belly laughs and we
are kicking stones and making mud pies,
just the same as age five.

We are thirty-six and I fell in the sand
of the horseshow pit when I tripped
over strappy sandals too impractical for
such shenanigans.
We grill burgers and tell old stories
of when we rode on roller coasters and
licked candied apples with
our sticky fingers reaching for our mothers’ hands.
We talk of finances and relationships and
we stay away from alcohol and caffeine,
because these bodies are in their thirties now.
But deep down
we know we are still nineteen,
sipping booze from brown bottles,
smoking reefer and cigarettes,
staying out all night.
Deep down,
we are the same as age five,
when we got blitzed on cherry coke,
and caught lightning bugs,
and loved each other-
a love so pure
only a child could understand.

Inbetween

I tried to clean my office but
it’s as messy as my head
that hopes to focus on something tangible
and fails miserably every time.
My therapist gives me advice
that I’m too afraid to follow;
fear is bottomless in me.
My ideas fester deep
in a brain that lacks serotonin
and makes me unsteady,
always second guessing my steps,
the ones I count when I go walking,
the ones I take when I try healing.
Ideas that steal my sleep,
make me groggy and forgetful of everything
excepts the fault lines that lie under my skin,
twitching and vibrating
when I hear a motorcycle rip past the house.
I fear loud noises and
you are the loudest.
You call to me from a place I barely remember
yet cannot overlook.
You scream to me, you bellow,
desperate to gain my attention.
I try in vain to ignore your pleas,
always finding myself back in your clutches again,
destined to relive my traumas-
destined to walk alone in a world
where I count my steps like heartbeats,
where I jump sky-high at loud noises,
where you exist in between
moments that feel like eternity.

Brigid Hannon is a writer from Buffalo, NY. Her poetry has been
featured at Ghost City Press Review, Right Hand Pointing, Constellate
Magazine, Night Music Journal, and Madwomen in the Attic. Her short
fiction has been featured at Soft Cartel and Edify Fiction. She can
be found online at hamneggs716.wordpress.com and on Twitter
@hamneggs716.