OAK BURNS SLOW | Darcy Smith
I didn’t expect the open casket.
Caitlyn O’Malley’s hair streams bright,
red braids on pillowed white.
Lines snake slow, maze of dazed parents
and teenage girls, shoulders collide, hands
clutch against the clamor and quiet.
She left without warning, a car crash,
a hole torn in the fabric of our small town.
We shuffle through her photos, art,
lost joys. When I finally find Terry,
he asks, Did you see my girl? I nod,
try to look my old friend in the eye, settle
on his crooked tie, tug on it to remind him
he’s not alone. When we meet
at The Black Swan, he shifts back
on his heels, throws me a sideways glance
that says I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Elbows on mahogany, he empties a pint.
Lifts another dark lager, bellows loud,
“The Parting Glass” Since it falls onto my lot,
that I should rise and you should not.
Come morning, I drive to his house, drag us
up the mountain, let the trees work him.
He knows his firewood. Ash burns hot.
Oak, slow. Earthy scent takes hold, he swings,
chops, stacks a half cord. Leaves at dusk.
Bed of his pick-up tipped, weighted.
Darcy Smith is an American Sign Language Interpreter. She believes poetry is a lot like translation. Both are enlivened by inference, image, and shifting syntax. The rural northeast informs Smith’s poetry, including her debut collection, "River Skin" (Fernwood Press 2022). Smith’s manuscript in progress centers mental health and extends to family, substance abuse, domestic violence, and loss. Awards include the Please See Me Mental Health Poetry Prize & the Medmic Poetry Prize. She is a Buddhist, kickboxer, wife and mother. Smith lives with her husband and their cat, Miley, in New York’s Hudson Valley. For more information and to view several ASL translations of her work, visit: www.darcysmith.org