Charlie M. Brown

Without Notice of Default

What I remember is the cracked, red wooden door that stood like grief—
ajar so long no one knew if it was opening or closing (and if memory
is only a cast, worn over the broken hourglass in your spine,
then grief is only an address). What I remember

is your jaw jutting like a night lantern hung,
someone forgot to set light to. Your eyes
the color of fog, still staring, too heavy
to hold on my own. You and the walls wore the same

stillness until the compressions.
With every press exhausting your body of whatever else you tried
to take with you. I remember learning then:
the body is another word for home (a word that not only dies, but keeps

dying). You never told me when you left
your cheeks would keep the way the sun turned honey
on your brown skin. Or your hands, the way spaghetti
tastes on my tongue when you add the right hint
of sugar. Here— these are only stories.

But I can still hear you speaking them
the night before you left. The words soft

from your lips like a kiss to an infant. And then you sang
quietly to yourself, a song

only your voice
could remember.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Charlie M. Brown’s poems and essays are forthcoming or have appeared recently in journals such as Tahoma Literary Review, 30 North and The Scarab. He is currently an undergraduate student studying creative writing at Salisbury University in Maryland. He enjoys film, photography and music.