James Wyshynski

And cousin,
at my stop
I hear the squeal
and you are
in that rail bed—
eyes open,
legs severed,
as I rewind
the man
on TV
as he says
the same thing—
my story
doesn't change:
I wasn't there,
I was away;
and Greg,
you are so
near and small
on the screen
I can
blot out
the scene
with one
thumb.

She's in her bed and I'm on the carpet, head
propped against a bookshelf, book open
to the chapter where Grandpa Soong gives in,
believes his niece is gone for good. The words
knot in my esophagus. What hubris to give up
a white Lexapro and now teeter, adrift
on a small carpet sea, too scared to move my head.
And what offering and to whom do I make
when the words do break and sound
and spill from my mouth? Rebecca, the ocean
is black and silent and you are the girl on the raft
of her bed waiting for the syllables to breach,
for her dad to begin a story—as simple as that.