Andrew Weatherhead

New Pants

Two years pass in an hour.

The wrong war ends.

I made it to page 257

before the library asked for it back.

Like initials carved into a sapling

that brown and grow apart

as they age, I was ready to

die.  I lay down on the floor.

I wanted to look up at the moon

one last time, but forgot which

house I was in.  A tiny rift

under the window

let the wind in: it whistled

along the wainscoting.

---

Hell Has Gradations

            after Max Jacob

My mom walks in.
She asks me how
my writing is going.
“Good,” I say.  (I’m
lying.)  I look up.
The ceiling fan is
shaking a little bit.
There’s a stain in
the shape of a fist.
“It’s cold in here,”
she says.  “I know,”
I say. I’m wearing
sweatpants. She turns
the fan off.  “Ok,” she
says, “I’m going to
bed.”  She’s wearing
her robe.  It’s green.
It used to be greener.
She shuffles down
the hall.  I stand up.
Even without shoes on
I’m taller than she is
(though she was taller
than me for more years
than I’ve been taller
than her, so there’s
that).  A dog barks.
It reminds me of
mine who we had
put down in May.
I commit to writing
something real.  I am
taller than my mom.
Alex is taller than
my mom. I am taller
than Alex and Griff.
John is taller than me.
Pat is taller than John
and Brett is tallest
of my close friends.
None of them
can save me.

Andrew James Weatherhead holds a degree in Neuroscience from NYU, an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School, and is an Eagle Scout.