Rough Edges

AMANDA KELLY

I curled around the trailer park front door.

You were in the corner, leaning in that leather chair, your jaw dragging on a loosely rolled cigarette. Rusted tobacco softly cremated. Tap tap.

Embers deposited into an amber ashtray.

I stole a handful of your Planters peanuts. Each salty crunch a denied morsel of intimacy. Yet, there was a moment of play.

You liberated your slick quicksilver hair, cracked a toothy smirk, and ran.

I stared in disbelief, while you lumbered after the manic squeals of your grandchildren.

I wonder, has death sanded down those rough edges? Could you utter my name one last time.