Sam Bickford


—and seasons don’t change but bleed through each other—and being in bed is a laxative for risk—and he didn’t sleep—and I try to place that last phone call— and his gravel pitch shifted throat wobble woebegotten croak at the end of the line and I can’t—and I can put on the taste of the song after I got the news— and was it Patsy’s Strange? Or To Here Knows When?—and shit man—and he drove into the Deerfield Creek with his grandma in the car—Xanax—and he said I was smart—and his Mom said We lost an angel—and those hollow pews—and a mcmansion Spartanburg church—and what else could she say— and I can’t believe how lonely a coffin—and death’s within a dream—and the parking lot was indistinguishable from the clouds—and I think of him as incomplete but completely finished— — a hiccup — ——and it’s not an if then statement— — knew he knew— — use needles— — sell back— —repackaged— — from whom killed him— —and I repeated every fact I could make up and — and —and — and memorable not logic— — and atrophy isn’t material it’s memorial—

— everything is a blank check — —and —and— not a loss — — placeholder to placelessness— —and —and youth — being far — —and being an adult is realizing dying isn’t the worst—

Sam Bickford is an MFA candidate at Louisiana State University. He loves bicycles and cats. Work forthcoming in Ilanot Review.

Recent Posts

See All

Laura Ohlmann

Wellspring I pour Mom a bath of oatmeal suds and keep my forearm submerged to judge what is too hot and what will soothe her. She needs help taking a bath now. I undress her, the way she once held my

Abigail Swoboda

Video Store Guillotine After the razor nicks the back of my neck, I pet the wound for the rest of the week & I google “horror movie heroine” because I want to be hot as in un-murderable— as in big swe