a live wire
you called yourself
home from Dublin for a day
home
must seem a strange thought
6,000 miles from what it was
maybe nestled safely now in what it is
I find myself missing you
having never known your touch
and you tell me there are no rules
about who you can miss
so god
how he must hurt
does he feel that space
hollow in his chest
a deeper pain perhaps
I hope he does
that he tells you every night
how it haunts him
but he endures
and waits
lets you find yourself
in the infinite
you say that every day feels volatile
every love
but in the best way
darling
the best way
I hope he can feel your electricity
across the Atlantic
the way I do
but more than this
hope he understands
how rare it is
to hold a live wire in your hands
and survive
Gary Reddin is a writer, poet, and journalist from Oklahoma. He grew up among the cicada songs and tornado sirens and his voice was born in that dissonance. He has an MFA from Lindenwood University. He is the author of “An Abridged History of American Violence” (Rose Rock Press, 2019). His work has appeared most recently in The Dillydoun Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Oklahoma Review and Essay Daily. You can follow him on Twitter at @andrewreddin.