As her grandmother once said, Callie Plaxco flew the coop when she left South Carolina to journey west to the University of Wyoming for her MFA. She currently stays home with her two small children and sometimes writes poetry when they are napping. Her work has been published at Carve Magazine, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Poached Hare and Axe Factory. Visit callieplaxco.com for more information.
My cousin William drew pictures of cowboys
I brought the yellow one with me. He and his
yellow hang on the wall above the bed. The two
of us live alone in my apartment. From my window,
the Yellow Cowboy watches a chimney and
smoke and the pigeons who sit on the chimney.
I eat breakfast and drink tea and the Yellow Cowboy
shares the morning with me. We talk often
about William and about antiques and high altitude
baking and about home. Do you remember, I ask him,
the time William and I lost the same tooth
on the same night? We raced to lose it. They fell out
just at the same time. We slept beside each other,
waiting. Do you remember, I ask him, the time
William taught me my first guitar song. It is still
the only song I know how to string. Do you remember,
I ask the Yellow Cowboy, the time William
ordered a waffle at the Waffle House
and do you remember how his hands shook
so his sister cut the waffle into little bites sopped in syrup?
Do you remember William and I beside each other
on the beach, our similar postures pressing
tiny butterfly shells deeper into holes, our fingers
little, like apple stems, like birthday candles.
Do you remember how William liked to play
with fire and the way he’d slip his finger
through the flame. Do you remember Christmas Eve
and his hand covered in wax as we sang Silent Night
with all the lights off except for candles.
The church aglow in stippled light.