by Rob Parrish
1. I’ve jammed your pillow in the crawlspace, but our last hurrah still clings to the curtains.
2. You are a phantom captured on AM radio. I try to change the tune and slide off the couch. The ceiling mocks me and I remember the milk crates full of vinyl in the attic under hemlines of dresses I never gave you. It was the first room you undressed in and motes moved around you like evening bees in the tiny columns of light.
3. The hemlock beyond the window swayed like your white dress when you danced in the yard that one summer. Last night I covered myself in the dead skin of the tree and tried to remember your scent.
4. A fuck was a fuck was a fuck.
5. Your voice was “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that is disconnected or that is no longer in service.”
Rob Parrish’s work can be found or is forthcoming in Lost Balloon, Gravel, The Harpoon Review, and The Airgonaut, among others. He is Editor-in-Chief at (b)OINK.
MoonPark Review 