that war

by Elizabeth Sackett

on the slipping,

the dark and the road

twitching its shoulders in sleep

we exist at night

to turn wheels

for my feet on dark pedals

for a gasp in my mother’s lungs

for my father sulking

for my sister and owl noises

in a maze driving through her mind

with its particular kind of

lighting and some shadow melts across

the street, uncast into solidity, solitude,

that warm war waving from each window

and then, minutes later,

slow black bicycles

slipping dangerously around a corner

nearly unseen

About the Author

Elizabeth Sackett earned a degree in writing from SUNY Geneseo, where she was the recipient of the Lucy Harmon Award in Fiction Writing. Her work has appeared in Gandy DancerNeon Literary MagazineSubprimal Poetry ArtI Want You to See This Before I Leave, and Wild Musette, among other places. Her free time is often spent sketching animal skeletons.