Hot Metal Bridge

Current Issue : Number Twenty-Five

A Record of What Happened When You Died

BY KATIE SCHMID

I put all my black
clothes into the bag.
I woke in the black
morning to go home.
 
It smelled like rain.
I felt sick on the plane, it was too early
to be alive. I died, just to know
what the fuss was.
 
Everyone was
at your house, and there
were all your things:
 
A maroon vase, blood-black.       A half-gone
tube of toothpaste         The little hairs
from your last shave     Your Things
mouthed your name
when no one was looking
 
The hospital bed would not quiet.
 
We stood in doorways             We yelled
at each other                  It became important
to know who felt
worse
 
We painted on our black clothes
with roller brushes                   We
carried each other around
like sacks of cut up meat          We couldn’t
 
bear
 
each other.
 
I wanted to tell you



Katie Schmid is a second year student in the University of Wyoming’s Creative Writing MFA program. Her poem “Jobs” was selected for inclusion in Meridian‘s Best New Poets of 2009 anthology. She’s from Chicago.