Contributor: Liam Strong

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for the culled heart. for the inheritance bequeathed
your patient hand. for the clumped patches of grass we fall to,

sandy loam laced into jean and flannel. for the night
we watched amber snow dwindle from downtown radiation.

let’s move back in to where we got kicked out.
your last night there was mine as well, that house

eviscerated of belonging, where we’ve been replaced,
and new furniture with a new family has been transplanted.

i grew up with you in a basement, covering our favorite
pop-punk songs on miniscule bass amp and riveted cymbals.

she was there, and every she that came after. this is for
everyone that opened the always unlocked door.

this is for you and how we could have returned life
to your home. for your empty wallet and churning stomach.

for your forgotten drum set, the burned posters,
the unwatched dvds, the sold video games.

for the scrounging of lifeblood from shag carpet,
icy cement, and the searching after placing home

into the backseat of your new one.


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Liam Strong is a poet from Traverse City, Michigan. You can find his work in the NMC Magazine, Dunes Review, and Poets' Night Out.