On the Edges
The furrowed field
is my path
to tracks
on a day
when all things
diminish.
We stood here once
surveying soil,
tracks clacking—
my shoulder your
stanchion.
Now I linger
on the edges,
away from
immersion.
Boots buried—
weary,
waiting.
Not to board—
only to feel
the train
churn ground,
lift my shirt—
creamy cotton,
worn the day
they lowered you
into soil like this.
Me above
surrounded by strangers
crushing lantern flies
in the cemetery garden.
Wings torn.
Guts spilled.
A thousand of them—
me.
.
Vacancy Outside Poughkeepsie
It’s the only room I can find
outside Poughkeepsie.
The sign blinks “vacancy”
in time with my eyes,
blinking to stay awake.
An old-fashioned motel key
slides across the counter,
the same kind you lost
whenever we stayed anywhere—
behind the dresser,
under a pillow,
wedged between car seats.
Room 24. I nod.
The room smells like someone
died—on that very bed.
I imagine a body laid out
on the faded floral spread,
arms folded across the chest,
the scene dimly lit by a lamp
with a dented shade
and 40-watt bulb.
Laid out like yours.
Not in a better place. Just dead.
I draw the curtains for more light.
Dust flies up my nose.
The parking lot is empty—
hum of an outside ice machine
below the window.
Here I arrived to silence death—
and somehow find it lingering
in this shoebox-sized room
eerily coffin-like.
If I could climb one story below,
I’d have scotch like you did—on ice.
I drink it neat.
Set it on the bathroom sink,
brush my teeth with bottled water.
I smooth my sleeping bag,
opting for the bed
over the floor’s dingy carpet,
threadbare and worn through.
The bedside lamp stays on,
walls closing in quickly—
air thick, hard to breathe.
Sleep is what I pray for tonight.
Arguing voices inside my head
refusing to shut up.
“Must we spend the whole weekend
with your family?”
“Humor me this once,” you said.
It’s grief I’ve been told—
will pass in time.
Last week’s funeral signaled a beginning
rather than an end.
I reread the obituary,
printed in your hometown paper—
two short columns and a photo
you would’ve hated.
I toss it in the trash.
Death does not become you.
© Laura DeHart Young
Laura DeHart Young is a queer poet and novelist based in Atlanta. Her poetry explores the quiet ruptures and deep attachments of everyday life. Recent work appears in Last Leaves, Trashlight, The Bluebird Word, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. Her latest chapbook, Burnt Toast and Benedictions, was published in 2025 by Bottlecap Press. Laura is also the author of seven novels from Bella Books.
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