Last night I stepped out onto the back deck
of my parent’s house with a cup of green tea,
attempting to trace back all the memories
that brought me back here.
A little snow lay on the ground. I strained
my eyes to see through the dark
and into the woods. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Instead, I stood listening to the coyotes
and a rabbit screaming
as the coyotes sunk their teeth in.
The house was empty – save memory
and the sounds of the television.
I closed my eyes, and behind my tired eyelids
I saw pictures – orchids, purple dahlias, a pink moon,
and a white crow.
I stood very still, trying to understand
and coming to understand
that I don’t understand anything anymore.
Editor’s Note: This poem appeared on our old site.
Tyler Bigney was born in 1984. His short stories, travelogues, and poetry have appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Poetry New Zealand, The Legendary, Iodine, and Underground Voices, among others.