That night now a faded print of a dream.
As the cold darkness pressed in and cut across the sharp lines of shadows
outside of the warm confines of kitchen walls, the bare porch bulb
pushed back the black edges of crystalline night.

The ground glittered with a fine frost
above my father, whose bones I’m sure are still buried
in a cement vault, miles away and under dirt. I sneak into town for holidays,
and hope that my mother doesn’t learn about it.

Hoping to skip her guilt trips, those shattered shards scattered on cracked concrete.
The whiskey bottle on my sister’s table bears brown witness
to group therapy, how we survived childhood together.
The coldest months frame the warmest memories.

About the Author
Nic Bullock grew up in Southern Illinois and spent most of his life there until moving north only a few years ago. He is a poet, pianist, and potter. He is currently working toward a bachelor’s degree in communication.