Apartment Poetry Quarterly

11A              11B              11C              11D              11E             11F


10C Emma Hyche



Whatever is intimate to that body
I mean the human that was

Air and flesh
No longer a mind but

Here we go spitting among
The Crickets in heat

Reminding ourselves that the beer
Tastes better cold and the lives we live

Are much
Tuna salad on toast

7:44pm EST on a Tuesday
Standing at a self checkout in Target

Market Street, Everywhere
Put your apples in the

If they don’t register, it never happened
Wait for an employee, for assistance

I’ve been alive for 35 years
It is absolutely a blip

On the machine
Of my car the salt sticks and tires

Deep exhale when freezing
I’m writing again

But no sun since August
CBD is a maybe imagined fix but

I take what I can get
A free salad

Lisa sends me home
With a bottle of wine

And my dad
Seems smaller

Or is it the idea
That his younger brother is gone

And these stories
That are still stories

Are no longer living
And my father

Who keeps me alive
Was the older brother

Selfish I feel for thinking
Of my own

Potential loss
Air in the tire again each weekday

Habitual lamp shopping
Online orders arriving the next day

I keep it with me
The memory of almost nothing

Reaching a hand out to bag
The life

Feel the pressure and weight
Make my dad some toast

To be the child who loves
To watch the parent eat

Becomes maternal
The way I feel listening

To Willa eating apple slices
In bed if only to stay awake

Ten more minutes
A refrain with which I’m familiar

Russell on the unicycle, smoking a pipe
An image I never saw

Once I was a member of a family
I never knew

When I sit up
The water glass breaks

I realize that wasn’t him in the story
Further away in the night

(Seems) brittle
Stones popped up under tires

My neighbor’s bicycle stereo
Ignites the air with a song I’d forgotten