Dead as a sun burn in Minnesota in December, I recall

The last time we spoke before you left
For New York City—talking of the city Poetically
Like Sandburg did of Chicago.

When you came back, you said we’d go to the bars on Boyd Street.

When you came back, we’d go to all the neighborhood haunts—

The Canadian River, Cherry Creek Woods, Waffle House,
Shitty Mexican restaurants, the condemned strip club,
The half-burned down building.

They brought you back in an urn, but I’m still thinking
Of what we’ll do when the real you comes back,
Not that thing of ashes.

Since every memory I love begins in the impoverished woods
We grew up next to, when you come back, we’ll go see
Cone flowers and honeysuckles and sword fight
With long pampas grass shoots.

Jordin Swanson has an English Degree from the University of Oklahoma and has been writing poetry for 20 years. It’s a lifelong dream for him to be published, and he’s working on his first book of poetry, tentatively called Our Gas Station.