The 2River View

Erika Moya

His Daughter, Again

I am over his shoulders in the picture —
my four year old hands resting on his head

divide what you have lost by what you have

the wind slicing through the trees trying
to remember that it is wind

the cadence of voice, the smell of hair
his arms around my shoulders

Wrap me in Christmas lights, white
and blinking. I am easier to see —

They weren't supposed to
take you away, like daylight

pouring over the back
of a mountain

how we had to walk faster
not to be left in the dark.

In the Forest

This is where I will tell you
what happened

so that you can see inside
like a house at night

all the lights turned on
and you thinking of the family

living there

In the shower
I pretend you are dead

so that I don't have to love you

anymore —
not hiding

my fear of planes
my need to sleep near windows

all these things

all the grief pooling around my ankles
the heavy and wet of doing this alone

the white of the porcelain tub shining
through my toes

how I see you in everything
In this dark we can make our own place

replete with the silences of
forests, the love letters

of trees

Erika Moya, a Los Angeles Native, attends the MFA program at the University of North Carolina — Wilmington. Her poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming inĀ Holly Rose Review, Le-Pink Elephant Press, Qaartsiluni, and UNSAID Magazine. contact