My dad mails me flash drives with nine-minute
videos of my dog swimming in our pool.
I keep a state flag pinned above my bed. I dream
of bears and it's the best I've got. I shove maps
stained with highlighters into a box.
My dog doesn't know my voice
over the phone when I talk about new people.
My dad never answers the house phone. I fly
six hours to live in a new house. My dad built
a sandcastle but I couldn't take it with me.
I pet the people's dogs on the street and they look
at me like what when I call them all Ben.
This time I walk patterns in the snow until my lawn
says HI DAD. My dad says HI back
when I send him pictures in wet socks.
I Went and It Was No Fun At All [II]
Do you want to come with me?
The people wear black and talk in harsh accents.
I can't understand but I feel what they mean.
If you come with me we can talk and talk nicely.
Let's think about our ears as left shoes and our mouths
as the right ones.
The people have eyes like we don't like you
and that's okay but I'm still sad.
Come with me and press your hand between
my shoulder blades and forward down their streets.
I wear earmuffs when it's cold and it's always cold here.
The people think I can't hear but I feel it
in their eyes like we can see you're strange.
Please come with me so I can see my house
from the way you talk about winter.
Tanner Celestin received her BA from Quinnipiac University where she was the editor of Montage. She currently lives in California and enjoys writing on the beach when she remembers to bring sunscreen.