Volta

Prairie Fire - - HEATHER FRASER -

It was the bot­tle­neck

fi­nally broke me. Sad­ness wasn’t new,

dreaming at six years old my mother’s death.

It was ra­dio static through my core.

It was a crack of light­ning break­ing Au­gust heat.

I was too young.

I was wrong when I thought

I un­der­stood heart­break.

Re­turn­ing home, as if any­one could live in that grief.

On the train, lis­ten­ing to the Smiths.

There is a light that never goes out. My aunt

waiting for us at the sta­tion.

My fa­ther’s not

com­ing. Pulled his back golf­ing,

he says. He’s not there for the im­pact.

I wasn’t watch­ing the road. I don’t know

if the light was green.

I thought I would die.

I thought I would die

if the light was green.

I wasn’t watch­ing the road. I don’t know.

He says he’s not there for the im­pact.

Com­ing, pulls his back. Golf­ing.

My fa­ther’s not

waiting for us at the sta­tion.

There is a light that never goes out. My aunt.

On the train, I’m lis­ten­ing to the Smiths.

Re­turn­ing home, as if any­one could live in that grief.

I un­der­stood heart­break.

I was wrong when I thought

I was too young.

It was a crack of light­ning break­ing Au­gust heat.

It was ra­dio static through my core.

Dreaming at six years old my mother’s death

fi­nally broke me. Sad­ness wasn’t new.

It was the bot­tle­neck.

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