“What I Remembered After” by Leigh Anne Hornfeldt

239 Replies

The cat was run over
in front of the house,
then buried in the tree line
near the Guinea pig
while the children watched
cartoons and cried into sleeves,
and once he was in the ground
I cried to my dad through the phone,
then walked back outside
to take a picture of the blood,
stubborn Rorschach in the street
that took one stiff bristle broom,
one gallon of bleach, two gallons
of vinegar, one bottle of peroxide,
and three nights’ worth of hot summer
rain to wash away, and even though
the day was ready to spit me out
I snapped one more picture,
thought, Evidence, in case I wake up
tonight with the license plate,
3 easy numbers, 3 fresh letters
I could not remember, not like 40502,
which was my zip code when I was 8
then was rezoned to 40515,
not like 24R-14L-8R, the combination
to my high school locker where I buried
my face between classes, not like (606) 273-3051,
which was my phone number when I was five
years old busy digging holes
for hamsters and goldfish by the fence.

-Leigh Anne Hornfeldt

239 thoughts on ““What I Remembered After” by Leigh Anne Hornfeldt”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *