by LISA C. TAYLOR
We sang Amazing Grace
to the walk light and fire hydrant.
Shadows of buildings inhaled exhaust
and I counted my remaining freedoms,
conjured gods,
while your fever rose.
Night is a thief, you said.
Streetlights beckoned
and we wandered
into a part of town
with shelter
for the healthy poor.
You handed the girl with a headscarf
your woolen coat.
The night after
you stopped breathing,
the moon was bloated
and incomplete.
Only a handful of stars showed up.
I spun into cities I didn’t know,
opened doors
to meet your sisters, uncles,
foreign friends, tentative and visible.
I called you the name you chose
as if you would answer
but your family
repeated a name you shed
like the coat you no longer needed
because you were warm enough
and that girl, the one
with the headscarf
was shivering.
— from Issue 5
LISA C. TAYLOR’s new fiction or poetry has been published in Crannog, Map Literary, Tahoma Literary Review, and WomenArts Quarterly Journal.