Charles Kell
Dear Marc

Hey brother, sorry I didn't respond.
We agreed that silent is safe.
You would have laughed. I'm all right.
I wrecked my car three weeks ago, Thursday night.

We agree silence means safe.
I left it there, took off running in the wood:
a black Thursday night car crash.
The backs of my Cole Haans stained blood brown.

Left it smoking & ran down South County trail.
I've drank only four times since May.
Two hundred dollar Cole Haans bloody brown.
All they can say is leaving the scene.

I've quit drinking, save four or five times.
Flecks of wet glass cut my skin.
I might only get charged with fleeing the scene.
Above were the shadows of swaying trees.

Flecks of cracked glass, airbag face burn.
Carrie is pissed. She said she might leave.
When I close my eyes I see the tops of burnt trees.
I don't think I can come back to Ohio this year.

Carrie is pissed. I thought you changed.
I'm seeing a shrink in two weeks so she'll stay
instead of coming home to Ohio this year.
We're scared of only ourselves we used to say.

I'll talk to a stranger in two weeks so she'll stay.
Hey brother, sorry I didn't respond.
You said we only scare ourselves.
You would have laughed. I'm all right.

_ _

Charles Kell is a PhD student at the University of Rhode Island and associate editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, Kestrel, The Pinch, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.

>> Back to Issue 21, 2018