Wash wash the blood at your stitches.
All tissues and bandages,
”Your father is all finished.”

I drive you home. We watch watch
the fog lift up from the lake,
”Warm air over cold water,” you named.

You told the officer she reminded you
of your “faraway daughter.” She said her name,
We shared shared the name.

That ditch ditch so near my house
and then our hot burning subject,
we still couldn’t name.

This small crash crash
a quiet reminder,
our last name.

White flower blossoms push pushing
over red branches, petals snow down
from the dogwood onto your porch.

I make sandwiches that we won’t eat.
In front of us, you’ve switched switched on
the NASA channel.

You ask me the question question,
shh shh
shh shh

Such such a pink in the powdery blue cosmos on TV,
like the color of the fog carried from the sunset and
I’m sorry.

And I’ve never been so sorry
and the blood on your chin
and the wash wash of the red.

And I hold your hand
and you hold mine
and we can be a family.

Heather Hanlon's poems have been in journals, zines, publications, and art exhibitions throughout Wisconsin. She has also published articles on functional and contemporary art as a graduate student. In her work in museums and in writing, she is interested in art practice and engagement as a form of social healing.