You remember the feeling but not what made you feel that way
We get used to trash along the road
or don’t even have to get used to it
but then some kids put their beer cans
on the tips of small trees trying to come up.
Little star. Now I know the cancer
is in my body and always will be.
Still, we can convince ourselves
of anything. When Bea wants to play,
that’s what I do. She gets under the covers
and pretends to be part of my body.
We tell her daddy she’s gone,
but she’s right there. I say
this is just me.
Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Barnett. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 16, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
“For a while, I was driving four hours from Kansas City to St. Louis to see a doctor, which felt both absurd and necessary. I would look for signs along the way. Once, there was a blizzard. All along I-70 there were iced-over cars sprawled on the median. Once, it was spring. I wanted to believe that. At first, the saplings topped with beer cans made me laugh. Then, I realized I was crying.”
—Elizabeth Barnett
Elizabeth Barnett
Elizabeth Barnett teaches at Rockhurst University, where she directs the Midwest Poets Series and is the faculty editor of the Rockhurst Review and Rockhurst Reader. She lives in San Antonio, Texas.