​​H E R M E N E U T I C   C H A O S   J O U R N A L

T O N I G H T   I   E X P E C T  

      A   B O Y   T O   D I E


B Y   V I R G I N I A   W E R B A

Virginia Werba studies philosophy and creative writing at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities.

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                         I can't write
            someone is dead.
a dog looked at me
from the front window
of a red truck—I looked 
                         and drove away.
            my mother is my mother
on the phone—when her voice 
            changes shape / eyelids knock
together / the knock they make
            when she isn't my mother.
                       things I choose to say
                                    when an 11 year old  boy

                                    things I can't:  
                       maybe grief can fit in this   box
             as long as it's lined with windows
                       filled with sand
                                    as long as it's round
             with a grin that sits on top
                       tied-up like a bow. 
                                                  spiders come    &
             they will / just check—they'll melt    why
you feel sweat / think drown  
              [piano: play only black keys]
where there is no reference, I can say:
                          there seems to be another ear