His cowlicks are joined 
  by the rest of his hair 
  as he dangles from the banister, 
  his flannel shirt small, thin, flapping. 
  Sneakers back on linoleum, 
  he pull up his shirt to show me 
  the stripe of bruises across his ribs. Says 
  he fell off a bunk bed. Says he cried 
  but it doesn't hurt now. 

   For weeks he talked 
   of visiting his mom in Nevada. 
   How was it? I asked him, 
   the trials and joys of Christmas 
   over for both of us. Tears, 
   shaky lip. We didn't go, he says. 
   She moved again, and we didn't know 
   how to find her address. 

   He likes books about science, 
   sea shells, has never seen the ocean 
   that lies an hour's drive 
   from this valley where mill smoke 
   makes the morning air sharp. 
   I read to him, I listen. 
   Together we form simple words 
   and do what we can. 

Cecelia Hagen was Fiction Editor for the Northwest Review for many years. Her work has been published inPortlandia, Exquisite Corpse, Prairie Schooner, Poet & Critic, Puerto del Sol, and in the book, From Where We Speak, an anthology of Oregon poets. She has a chapbook forthcoming at the end of this year from 26 Books Press. You can see more of Cecelia Hagen's work in Caffeine Destiny.

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 Cecelia

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