Written by Sara Kaplan-Cunningham
Not even the dog ventures outside.
Through the windows, I watch the cold at work.
Only the crows are brave, clinging to stiff branches
And rooftops. Summertimes, my dad and I go to the beach
To feed the seagulls. In the fall, we pick chestnuts.
I step on the prickled skins and they split apart like eggshells.
But it’s winter.
Driving down the interstate, he forgot the word for “tow truck.”
He pressed his hand against the passenger-side window, asked:
What’s it called, you know, a vehicle that hauls wrecked cars?
featured in our summer 2019 issue