The Sound After Thunder

“So go then,” she said,
referring to the way the river

was drained
of water.

Your front porch was filled

with wind chimes,
filling

the corners of the deck,
filling your house

with hollow sounds.

One day your belongings
began

to disappear.

Windows opened –
latch-less –

let in the low drones
around

an empty fish bowl
of river water.

You disappear,

leaving an empty chair

for the mortician
to prepare,

broken kite strings
on the legs.

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About mckenzielynntozan

McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she works as the Departmental Secretary of English and World Language Studies at Indiana University South Bend, and remains closely affiliated with 42 Miles Press, New Issues Poetry and Prose, and Wolfson Press. She previously received her MFA in Poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the Layout and Design Editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and as an Assistant Editor of Poetry for Third Coast. Her poems have appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent, Thank You for Swallowing, Whale Road Review, The James Franco Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and Analecta; and her book reviews have appeared on her website and on The Rumpus. She lives with her husband, their daughter, and three cats. For more, visit www.mckenzielynntozan.com. View all posts by mckenzielynntozan

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