Dear I don’t know why it doesn’t work, / I’m sure (and have been) still / lights in / attics of torn- / down houses burn.
Had we known its connotations, the way a word / can rot like fruit, the outer layers growing / vulnerable and soft.
If you’re looking / for the perfect poem / to read at your wedding, / I have some questions for you:
Dear was burned, / Here we are losing our balance differently now. / Our once field now fireweed’s fuchsia spikes. / Here is our shoulder that was a wing in the before. / Can you mourn what grows?
Boxcar is a novel in four parts by Robert Martin. We published a new excerpt every two weeks between August and October 2014. This is excerpt number six.
Ghost courses. / Sixth floor waiting room, view / from above: / rabid traffic surges round the cloverleaf—seemed / a mild intersection enough / when I drove it.