by Liam Strong
Gone Lawn

two mornings ago, the river up & left. i didn’t hear a thing. not you, not leaves or crunches of snow, not their bed croaking awake. you bought sticky notes & scotch tape for me to keep reminders of absent items. brook trout, pennies, bottle caps, algae that once retained the rocks. i held your spit like a tablecloth, dearest. the syrup escapes the house the fastest way, its tires coughing snow in the neighbor’s ditch. i know i apologized already. but i’m elbow-deep in building a new water table, & we won’t have rain for months. it’s fate or something related to it, where things disappear to. you can go, i promise. leaving is an option only you can make. the unripe bananas can stay unripe in the basket. i have digging to do.

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Liam Strong (they/them) is a disembodied genderless question mark and the author of three chapbooks. They died in 2020 and have been writing ever since. Find them on Instagram: @beanbie666. Read more of their work at linktr.ee/liamstrong666