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is flown half-mast. I want
to write about the suffocating enormity, but against the sky’s slick skin, it dangles like a tired bandage. I don’t want to forgive so easily. I want to play the angry faggot but in truth I burn to know what grief demotes your pride, neighbor. Did you lose your son, a lover, a dog? Does it matter that when my best friend died, one of the last things he said was be nice to me, I don’t feel well. I mean to say we’re all so small. I’m scared for all of us to run out of gas in an unfamiliar place. You know the feeling, coasting that road so slowly, hoping you’ll make it home. |
Eric Tran is the author The Gutter Spread Guide to Prayer and the chapbook Revisions. He won the 2019 Autumn House Press Emerging Writer’s contest work appears in RHINO, 32 Poems, Missouri Review, Iowa Review, and elsewhere. He is a resident physician in psychiatry in Asheville, NC.
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