MY SISTER WAS CRYING ON A BUS

Rain sounding a drumbeat outside my window and
    we are fighting—

We mouth hatred like wounded goldfish

A dog is trapped in a hotel

I pick up my clothes from the floor and my shirt is stiff
    in my fist

   the hotel falls into itself
the bus
   bursts into flames

there is a dog
    somewhere

   my fists are clenched

my sister is crying

 

DINNER PARTY, AFTERMATH

Tiny black flies swim
even in death. Buoyant,
they skim above the surface
of red wine—still suspended
at the end of a stem like
the plush bloom of a rose—
left on the dining room table.
Sweetness drew the flies.
Sweetness and loneliness.


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EMMA McGLASHEN is an Ann Arbor native, finishing up a senior year at the University of Michigan. A 2018 recipient of the Undergraduate Hopwood award in poetry, her writing can also be found in Bombus Press’s Issue Five: Untranslatable, in the 2018 Cafe Shapiro Anthology, and on her blog, crowreview.tumblr.com.