Great Lengths
By Skye Van Saun

Before the flatbed showed up, I caressed
your hood and thanked you for keeping me

and my child safe when the restraining
order wasn’t enough.

I thanked you for blending in
with all the other Jeeps

so we wouldn’t stand out
when my husband had nothing

better to do but lie
in wait for us to drive past,

and for having a tiny plastic nub
that stuck out from the left

taillight where, nightly,
I stretched a thin black thread

and tied it to the top
of the license plate

that covered the gas cap.
If the thread wasn’t broken

in the morning I knew you would
deliver us another day.


Object Permanence
By Skye Van Saun

You came back from the dead
in full Kodacolor
drying out
on the dining room table

with the other photos
rescued from the flood
in my basement.
You were holding up

the semi-automatic
Browning rifle you got
when you retired
from the police department

that you kept fully
loaded under our bed
when you weren’t holding it
in your arms the way you used to

hold me or resetting the scope
for accuracy or the trigger pull
so it would go off
with the slightest

provocation
days upon end
at your workbench
where I found you

floating, glassy-eyed
grinning.