Growth / Decay By Oona Mackinnon-Hoban

Growth / Decay

The gas station on the corner of my street still receives deliveries;
large carts of milk driven up in a wide, blue truck
the same color as the sky when March decides to be kind.
Sometimes I will look out my window and expect to see bodies
loping towards me, their pace staggered, eyes bleak
and white as the flesh of an oyster.
In a much worse story than this,
the trucks stop coming and it rains and rains
and the sky is never that color again.
The church on the corner of my street
has a sign that reads “God is still God,”
in the same black letters they used to
announce potlucks and Sunday dinners.
On a Thursday afternoon,
a house up the road catches fire
and if I close my eyes, I can smell the smoke
from my kitchen.
In a much worse story than this,
someone besides the dog dies.
First day of the month, three days of rain in a row;
today I will think about pancake suppers and dry cleaners,
the men who drive the sky blue truck
and the people who watch it go by from their window,
God who is still god, and the dog who I hope was sleeping,
who I hope was not scared,
and the things that grow
on top of, as my dad says, and not inside,
and what will happen when the growing stops
and the sky isn’t open anymore.

By Oona Mackinnon-Hoban


Oona Mackinnon-Hoban is a senior at Barnard College, graduating this spring with a degree in English. She was born and raised in Portland, Maine and now lives in New York City.

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