By: Alyssa Trivett 

It was never the property,
or any sort of bloodline.
Lightbulbs crackled
like World War II radio static.
Dogs being walked stopped
in their tracks.
Fan blades always whir,
the switch was never flipped.
Your clothes collect dust.
We never knew
what to do
with them,
nor how they ended up
on the bannister
in a laundry binge
shortly thereafter your
here’s-my-last-trick-before-
I-say-goodbye-
as your eyes roll back
and you tried to
puppet prop yourself
up in the stretcher.
And you muttered
how you love us
as your car battery
heart gave out
thirty minutes later.
But I have your voice
in my head relaying lines back to me-
I’m the news anchor,
and I have your heart,
and God, above all.
They upped my
Guardian angel
count to eight.
And I’ll never forget counting
eight chandeliers
at your wake.
As referenced
in another poem.

Bio:

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared on numerous websites and in print, as well; most recently at Street Light Press and The Rye Whiskey Review.