Robert Held

Hometown Night—Breeze

A woman with your voice

on tape drove me to town,

and stopping at the overlook rest stop

she heaved over the sink and told me

the gravesites behind the hotel are illuminated

in a way that might remind me of my hometown

—it was true, there were pistons in every surface

uncovered by flash photos taken too close to the faces of friends,

classmates, and parents as they ascended to heaven.


A woman with your hairstyle

drove me to the hospital in exchange for the diorama

of a housed moon made of the skin

I collected from our sheets. The mauve fog stacking

itself above the city is the only

circumstantial red as we approach

the guardrail like calculus.

She said, “I’m here.

Do you love me?” and coughed.

Meanwhile I’m in the trunk with dreams of your thighs

contoured with scars and the one time I remember

speaking in a dream,

with corrugated walls. We can’t tell

if the newspaper photos were taken after

the impact. I promise we’re dead in them and you

continue pasting them to your bed frame.

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Robert Held is an English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo, makes video poems, wants to be a big boy, likes videos of farming equipment and PlayStation, and stepped in a muddy puddle today but didn’t get his socks wet! He’d be best friends with Voltron.