Kyle Heger
Awakening
Fellow students gaze in wonder as he
lifts his face from a desktop, glistening
and sticky from the vernal pool of his own
saliva, and disputes vehemently with a
teacher over an obscure point of Cold-War
history before returning to his self-imposed
oblivion. They would be no more amazed
to see a tree stump rise up, shake off the
moss and interrupt its slumber by zealously
reciting Cicero or doing the highland fling.
My Cousin’s Bedroom
On the wall hangs a cast-
iron Scotty dog she once
took for God. Her bed is
separated by a stone wall
from the porch where her
uncles slept as boys, a room
so cold it doubled as an ice
box. Quaffing Liebfraumilch
from green bottles, we sit
cross-legged on her mattress
and record our voices on
coiled intestines of metallic
tape for posterity and laugh
about the family curse.
