Your daughter asks the story of the world
by Jacob DeVoogd
Tell her it started in 4AM’s almost-empty subway cars,
stares from strangers.
That it came in crashes, calendar quotes pinned to office walls,
love notes not delivered.
Tell her fear sounded. It splintered feet and cracked floorboards.
It dusted estate sale dishware, spat smoke from wildfires,
punched crimson.
Forced us bare.
Tell her we tried language, that we ate Wellbutrin and frozen dinners,
that we saw bank balances go negative and the wide,
deep blue
become our bodies.
Tell her about the last days.
Tell her she’ll unpeel you
from bed sores and thin sheets and teach you to speak again,
if only a few more words,
a few more times. Tell her she’ll wheel you
to Lake Michigan, that you’ll watch your daughter
watch her daughter watch the world, and,
finally, you will feel real.
Jacob DeVoogd is a graduate of the MFA program at Western Michigan University. His writing can be found in The Madison Review, The Lumiere Review, ONE ART, and more. Born in Detroit, Jacob lives and works in Chicago. He experiences Bipolar II Disorder.
