Poetry by Beckett Stanger
Art by Margaret Xun
I start going on walks in October. Fog covers the valley
Night after night. It clears my head. I sit and talk with
Friends. Songs calm me down. I tell them about you,
Fighting off self-loathing. It is not working. The air is
Ripe with decomposing leaves. Trees glowing in the
Fading sun. Burning. Burning. Families crowd into
My house on the second Monday. It’s Thanksgiving.
I go to the skating rink with friends the next day. Fathers
Shake hands in flannel shirts and down puffers. Wearing
Baseball caps of their children’s teams. The players run
Around us all. Loose skates wobble on rubber mats as my
Lungs fill with chilled air. It feels like Christmastime.
How’s your old man. How’s the wife. How was the bird.
Simple questions. Effortless interactions. Easy answers.
Mothers kneel in purple coats, tying up little skates.
Laughing at light quips. Wide smiles. Meetings with
Friends that don’t entail crying. None of them find the
Others drunk by themselves at home. Lots to be thankful
For. The kids don’t really know each other yet.
I will stumble to our friends’ house the night before. I
Will be told you do not hate me. It will only make it worse.
The clock strikes. Later, my mother will thank yours for
Having been so good to me. Your mother will return the
Gesture in kind. I only think about the families at the rink.
How will you feel about the pictures of me with my sleeves
Rolled up the next day? Desire is too soon. Jealousy too harsh.
I have no idea what I want. I have no idea what I have done.
I have no idea who I am. I recite the names of my friends and
Begin to cry. In a year, I hear the words of a man swearing never
To forgive himself for what he’s done. Hoping that he is dead
In five. I know him well.