The college girl who died when her blood sugar
dropped and her car careened off the highway,
her sister writing to the Internet for answers;
my great-grandmother who made angel food cake
taste better than I imagine even the clouds must—
her face in the casket, her red lipstick a final flirtation;
and the boy I loved when we were only children,
the stolen kiss under the dock,
the water up to our chins.
I was so nervous then.
His death a striking image. Picture it: We met in elementary school, nap time:
the ceiling the floors
the cord, yellow, the mats, blue-red-blue
the noose taut the hand extended
the swaying the silence.
Abby N. Lewis is a poet from Dandridge, Tennessee. She is the author of the chapbook This Fluid Journey (2018) and the poetry collection Reticent (2016). Her work has appeared in Timber, The Mockingbird, The Allegheny Review, Sanctuary, and elsewhere. Follow her website: freeairforfish.com.