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Miss You. Would Like To Daisy Together Again.
After Gabrielle Calvocoressi
Do not even care if you come up the steps drunk.
I know the jeep still waits somewhere. Still think
about how my sister named it daisy;
how hanging all over the row bar and sides:
my sister, my cousins, myself.
Do you remember that? Driving. Miss you.
Miss the jostle of tree trunk breaks. Go ahead.
Light up a cig. We don’t have to tell your lungs
this time. Miss you. Still hear the stories in my ears.
Be better if you told them. Your knack for details –
want that. Again. Remember pink lady slippers
and red Indian paint brushes. The red
army lichen. You named them for me.
Wish we could ride those dirt roads and forest trails.
Miss Miane. Miss you. Misplaced the words
of the jeep song – forgive me? Miss
the scourge of the swamp. It’s shoulder.
How you could turn a piece of stump
into lore. Envy that. Somewhere on a radio
playing with the queen of hearts plays.
Are you listening? I could pretend to get ready
for school again. Should I stream it?
Can do that now. I could cook the hash
on the wood stove this time. The powers out.
Never thought to ask if you daisied
for mom and my piblings. Could we go back
to hangman’s tree? I have questions.
Want to siphon some gas for the canister?
I could get the hose and help this time.
Definitely won’t tell Grams. Anyway,
not her car now. Plus, like you, she’s another
hyoid bone lodged in my throat now.
- William E. Smith III
William E. Smith III lives in Bloomington, Indiana, with his dog Buddy. He is an MFA student in the Creative Writing program (poetry) at Indiana University – Bloomington. His work has been published in The Classical Review and has been included in the anthology A Folded History: Poems and Mythologies (Ragged Sky Press, 2025).