Spring 2017, Volume 22

Poetry by Taylor Napolsky

Further Away

The epigram once emblazoned on the front
of the t-shirt withered and peeled. All the kids
let out of school have been picked up
by their moms and dads, after standing
where they were told to wait. Hi. 
I used to talk to my dad playing a
fake character in the car, my eyes
out the passenger window, he playing a trick.
And I get rid of my old skater clothes.
I get rid of my journals from my twenties.
I’d turn to him and he’d stop.
My room’s a configuration
of waving them down, and pouring 
Cherry Coke into a deep glass,
and smoke on Mom’s
leather jacket. I look
the other way again: go. 
It’s a life of advancing arms,
of petting and hugging, and
limitless, acute interactions. The 
ways we intervene on one another.



BIO: Taylor Napolsky's work has appeared in Really System, Small Po[r]tions, decomP, and others. He lives in Seattle. Visit him on Twitter @taylornapolsky.