The high school runs parallel to the road like the police station,
Which runs parallel to where your cousin ended up after he was accused of manslaughter.
On curve of the road after that prison, you almost hit a motorcyclist
(whose rims and glasses and helmet gleamed like your father’s).
Heading to the adobe home where your grandparents wiled away their last days,
The little biplanes overhead all run to the same airport parking lot,
Across the street from the then-construction site where you were first felt up.
Blunted, all roads end in a house, where there is always the sound of traffic but never the sight
And the eaves cover dark shades which cover bright, hardy petals,
Which are surrounded by the weeds that surround the origins of the escaped and damned,
And you forget who you ever were without this place.
Grace Gay is a second year English Creative Writing major with a focus in Poetry and a minor in Legal Studies. Originally from Scottsdale, Arizona, she has received a US-UK Summer Fulbright and the Faricy Award for Poetry from the Northwestern English Department. When not editing for Helicon magazine, writing for Scene+Heard or serving as a peer listener for WildChat, she enjoys hiking, traveling and volunteering with animals.
