Sylvie Yet
After Knox passes out
I walk Winslow one last time
and close up the van. It’s cold
in northern Michigan at night,
even in June, and I feel
kind of selfish leaving him
out there in his tent. But what
should I have done? Made room
in my bed? Do I have a death wish?
Still, today was like a slumber party
with a new best friend, I could just let him in
and keep it going and—the thought makes me
flush, which makes me
want to yell into my pillow, and here
it goes again: I’m only weeks past
the accident, I’m a bad person, ice cold. I wanted
to touch him. I wanted his warmth
for myself. I would’ve taken it
if he’d have let me because I’m the place
where light goes to die. Black hole.
After Cal’s funeral
Dr. O found me at the wake
and said, “You don’t owe anyone anything,”
and I thought at first he was saying
I didn’t have to make up my last
AP Calc test for his class, but he looked
so sad when he said it, eyes grave
behind his glasses. I didn’t
believe him. I still don’t. I know
that I’ve taken way more from the world
than is my due. But the weight of it
is crushing me, all this debt
on my back. I have to start paying it off.