Poetry 2017


By: Nathan Childers


One handcuff’s length apart, a silver

Dollar, a bus ticket to the

Other side of the city, a plastic

Cardinal from a candy machine at the

Entrance of the diner.

A lockbox of gum wrappers and a paisley

Tin that used to hold cherries, but now holds

Dead wildflowers from the Shenandoah.

Pristiq and Vyvanse in child-proof bottles.

Socks with holes and apologies with holes,

Trinkets kept safe with me when I cross

State boundaries and a cross around your

Neck when you sleep in basements.

I wish I wasn’t a vacuum to you.

I hope you get to be happy sometimes.

Some nights I wish I believed in God

And that plane tickets were cheaper or

You told your mom you loved me.