Miles by Dara-Lyn Shrager

My son’s pirate robe hangs in the closet 

next to my coat. Dusty shoulders silver

the sunlight when I lift the hanger 

to breathe him in. In dreams, I close

my eyes to fly over cities he’s in. 

Just type any letter of the alphabet

so I’ll know you’re ok. He sends a g 

or a j. It’s not the clock’s fault I am 

more dented metal than lucent wings. 

It must have been twenty years ago,

while I was washing sweet potato stains

from his onesie, that the second hand 

set my pulse to his own. These days, 

the sight of his bedroom stabs me 

through. I am beginning again without 

the one I love. Each turn spins my body 

toward what I cannot say. 

Dara-Lyn Shrager is a poet and editor. She is co-founder/editor of Radar Poetry. Her poetry collection, Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, was published by Barrow Street Books in 2018. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in journals including The Iowa Review, Crab Creek Review, Southern Humanities Review, Pembroke Magazine and Nashville Review. www.daralynshrager.com.

13 November 2023