9

Samuel

I used to take you to physical therapy, get off of work,
flirt with the doctors from Botswana. You never
really liked the other kids, but I never really liked

the other kids either, so we are in agreement
on some things. I can't figure out a Rubix cube at
eight years old or write a book about carpets &

the men who have no one
at nine years old, but I love the way
we are both cheap hotels, we eat
our peas with honey & microwave
metal pieces to see the sparks.

I used to show you how to do things, but that
ended when you were five & realized you will
need surgery someday, that Palsy is not just

a word for a funny face,
that the town shines
at night if you climb
the highest hill.

You let me in on the big secrets: sex is just
two naked people hugging, when people die
they don't go anywhere, they have nowhere

left to go. You begin to forget your shoes in
the lunchroom, your lunchbox by the bookshelves
and come home with just a tiny piano and

begin to play. I say, what have you done today?
And you reply, one day I fractured my wrist dancing
on a fence, remember that. I say, I will,

& you say
you know the reason
people remember
to breathe.

I watch as you line up some Matchbox cars on the roof,
shove them off, & wonder aloud who

will land first.

by Heather Bell

Heather Bell graduated in 2005 from Oswego State University. Her work has been published in ReadThisMagazine, From East To West, and Mannequin Envy. She has worked alongside doctors, law enforcement and librarians. Currently, she resides in the desert and spends her days writing, polishing boots, and catching insects in jars. She dedicates all her work to JNB because without him, she never would have written any of it down.