Waiting for my aunt to pick me up
before school from my grandmother’s,
I’d play in the birdbath that leaned just so
as if it had something to say to me but
wouldn’t. The leaves made the water
thick, and I scooped it up to my face,
making myself feel the peace of no
breathing. No song in the roses
that took off in front of her
house at the oddest of times,
but I picked them to give
to my teacher hoping they
would help her hear the little
snaps inside of my chest,
the latchings, of course,
that happen when you
take notice of the door
being locked to your
mother’s room. No
knocking, go watch
the hills eat clouds
the way they do here
when, still, nothing is
dying. Watch the
 hair on your knees flicker
while you listen to the trucks
at the liquor store hum and come to
a stop like how you hear the sink in
the middle of the night and know
she is still there. No song
in the roses, my sister in
the front seat wrapping
them in wet paper towels.
 

—JC Andrews

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