by Emma Farrell
It was January.
White sky, frozen ground.
The driver didn’t see you.
You were completely annihilated.
But a nice angel came down
and gathered your bones.
She dusted the snow off each one
and placed them in her bag
with all the others she collected.
Six years have gone by
since that 8th grade Sunday.
But I know you’re not really gone.
Your left sneaker is still lying in the street.
An airy ghost of you
still shuffles through the hallway.
The seat you once sat in–
I hear you whispering through the walls.
Published in Kalliope 2013