Tyler Bigney

Suppertime

Hiding under the oak table
with my two brothers
at suppertime
watching
as father threw mother
across the kitchen
into the sink
into the table
against the stove
and spilling
the boiling pots
of potatoes, carrots,
broccoli, and turnip
that were supposed to be
for supper.

To my brothers
it appeared
as if I wasn’t scared,
and that’s because I was the oldest
and was taught
and told that
it was my job
to be the bravest
and I was.

I told my brothers
to count aloud
and wait for the sun
to sneak in
through the cracks in the blinds.
But when the sun
wouldn’t come
I pulled the tablecloth
down over the table
and whispered for my brothers
to plug their ears
close their eyes,
ignore the pangs of hunger
aching in their bellies
and dream of sun
instead.

Ghost

Sometimes
long after
I have smoked
my last cigarette
of the night,
I find a ghost
wearing your perfume
in my bed
and she doesn’t
answer my questions
or tell me anything
I didn’t know
but it’s nice to lay
there like that
and watch movies
and have someone
to talk to
until the sun
comes up.

CP

Tyler Bigney lives in Nova Scotia. He divides his time between working, writing, and traveling. His poetry, short stories, and prose have appeared in Poetry New Zealand, Underground Voices, Nerve Cowboy, among others.