Because the poem will be in print and not on the web, I'll also put the poem here, though you should buy a copy of the magazine when it comes out!:
Counting
One. They say there is a place where
your body remembers: the heat
that rose from your summer childhood,
the way the cicadas persisted in the trees and
at night, when power went out, your mother
placed fans up against screen doors.
At night, when the thunderstorm rolled in, you
counted each beat from flash to rumble, you thought
about swimming pools and how the safest place
to be was tangled in your covers, where the bogeyman
could not see you. Two.
But what of the bogeyman who places fans?
What of the monsters in the trees, the robins
with fangs (it’s there, I know
it’s there) and the crickets, the way the thighs
run furiously, anxiously? Three. The way
the night has a way of creeping, slowly,
around the room.
Four. They say when you get to five, it’s a mile
away and you can’t help but hope it gets closer,
so it can cover the fear, so you can
blame the barred doors on lightning, on keeping
the night out, not the mother. You do not
want to remember the biggest secret, you do not—
Five.
