Ice (4) (1989), Gerhard Richter
Actually, Transition is Not Death
Look. It does not snow in June
In North Carolina. But there was ice and my cousin was hit by a car,
Died then, on the road’s shoulder.
At the funeral, my uncle folded like a tent over the casket, screaming,
Where’s David? Has anyone seen David?
That winter, I was born for the second time. Woke without a trace of woman
And the following day, the first boy I fucked fell from a third-story window in New Orleans.
I’ve spent years with my hand on my clit, remembering
How he filled me like a tire in my father’s garage. Even now,
My uncle walks the road. David appears as mist out of moss. He asks after his sister.
His mother down in Florida. Some days, my uncle cannot find his son.
My father stopped looking. Years ago.
H PEARSON is a writer from the southern Appalachian mountains. He graduated with a Creative Writing degree from Emory in 2020. Pearson frequently collaborates with choreographers and writes text for local dance works. He lives in Atlanta with his cat Sophie and dog Myles. He is very happy to be here.
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