Christy Lee Barnes
I hear the sound that could have been a gunshot
but definitely wasn’t so we keep walking.
but could have been but wasn’t
You bounce ahead, oblivious as you ought to be
and so, so happy. Hell-bent on checking
on your favorite water fountain to find out
if they’ve fixed it yet. Just a few steps
ahead of me.
but wasn’t but wasn’t
but could have been What use is instinct
once hijacked? What calm
from these forced breaths in and out, this counting
five things that ground me trying to slow my body?
My flexed hands, not
reaching for you because there is no reason to.
but wasn’t but wasn’t but could have been
The fountain is still broken. You press the buttons anyway.
You head for the slide. A truck drives down
the park path, back hatch loose, metal
ricochets off metal.
but wasn’t but wasn’t
Your chubby hand in mine
up the steps to the double-slide and down together,
but wasn’t but could have been
safe as anyone has ever been.
Christy Lee Barnes is an educator originally from Los Angeles who now lives in Seattle with her husband and toddler son. Her writing can be found in Prairie Schooner, Plume, Cream City Review, Cagibi, Spillway, The Comstock Review, Tin House’s “Broadside Thirty,” The Seattle Times, McSweeney’s, and elsewhere.