Brennan Sprague

Closer Than They Appear

Beyond this floor-to-ceiling glass,

blue dusk—waterfall coursing my limbs,

dousing me in its paternal rage—

airtight window, you cannot hear

the screeching streams,

the teething trees scratching the wind,


brittle branches to the moon’s dribbling milk—

a father reunites with his son

after a decade apart—

whispers piercing porcelain plates—soup steam

rising upwards, apparition

here to warn us

of the pitiless depths—

of our newborn skulls—

of the way the lamps in the restaurant dimmed as

our futures waned &

dusk drifted into night,

that blue light here for those spare seconds

scavenged into sapphire—

we are the last table—

the cerulean neon

burnished the pavement, echoed

in the puddles—

the falls deafening, devouring

the bones that hold us,

those adrift hitchhikers—

strangers to Chevys sliding

across slicked highways—

seeing in every rain-specked windshield

the faces of our mother & father—

waiting ceaselessly for

them to slow to a stop & flick their blinkers,

gazing at us in the foggy rearview

mirrors, slowly nearing

their sealed doors, reddening ears peeled for

the divine click of the lock


Brennan Sprague studies creative writing at MCC.