Head Trauma

Ruth Foley

 

And afterwards, after the accident? I remember you. What is your name again? We sat in St. Mark’s darkened common room, our parents singing resurrection hymns. I remember you. What was your name again? Or the name of the boy who died next to you? While our parents sang resurrection hymns, all I wanted was you to remember me, or the name of the boy who died. Next to you, I poured coffee for us both, added milk to yours. All I wanted was you—to remember me, who we were before. None of it matters now. I poured coffee for us both, added milk to yours. You said, I know the taste of red flashing lights. Who we were before, none of it matters now. I think I might have kissed you that night. I know the taste of red flashing lights, the flight of forgetting when vessels burst. I think…I might—I had kissed you that night. It’s enough that I know this for both of us. The flight of forgetting when vessels burst—we sat in St. Mark’s darkened common room. It’s enough that I know this for both of us afterwards, after the accident.


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Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her work appears in numerous web and print journals, including Antiphon, The Bellingham Review, The Louisville Review, and Sou’wester. Her chapbook Dear Turquoise is available from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review. 


 
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