issue 7
// poetry
unnotched
by Miguel Rodríguez Otero
third friday night of the month
again, sister draws a line right above
my head. i am half an inch taller,
but otherwise the same: the one who’d go
to college, get married, ordinary enough
for xmas small talk. dessert’s calling,
but i don’t leave the wall. instead,
i stretch my arms up like i am asking
for help, get on tiptoe and scratch
the sheetrock with my nails,
a second notch that is also me.
they all freeze, eyes bloodshot, rigid.
they shrink back and feel their way to the door
away from the mark that should never
have happened. they dread the empty space,
now exposed, that no man’s land
between both notches, the real one
and the other real one.
i expect a scold for the paint flaking off
underneath the wallpaper,
for refusing my own reality.
i’m now an outlier, self-estranged,
the one to bitch about at xmas dinners.
but i have sought shelter in that void. never
covered it. i’ve clawed every inch
up those walls.
about the author // Miguel Rodríguez Otero
| Miguel Rodríguez Otero’s work appears in The Examined Life, River Heron Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collection es aquí. He lives in Galicia, has deep ties to Vermont, and shares a marsh with a heron. |
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