NOTICE: You are currently viewing an ARCHIVED version of the Waccamaw. Visit the redesigned site.


                                    Alan Michael Parker

When I find you, darling, in the night
curled on the rug in the living room,
insomniacal as the TV—
though the dog’s happy, the coffee cake’s happy,

the chamomile tea’s happy—
and you’re crying, and I ask what happened,
and you answer, “roadkill,”
for a moment I’m sure you mean that’s

what we are in the universe, because
that’s how each day makes us feel.
A clump of hair in a drain, pickings,
as the moon makes of the furniture an X-ray.

With my hand like a little paw,
I hesitate, then touch your shoulder.

Copyright 2018 Waccamaw. All reprint rights reserved by authors.