Sebastian Merrill
Night Animals
We turn the radio up,
sing against sleep. Lightning
flashes, rain sheets.
You’ve just left
your husband, the man
you shared with me before
he started drinking
again, bottles
hidden in the back
of the van, before
you moved to the forest,
the lost years
when we didn’t speak.
You brake, swerve,
headlights illuminate
a raccoon,
wide eyes staring.
Remember those first
nights in Portland,
when you both
welcomed me
into your king bed,
the whip on the wall?
I circled
around your nested
habits. How to trace
the disintegration of
a marriage?
The half-told truths.
A frog hops before us,
our breath fogs
the windshield.
I never imagined
you would leave it all
behind: the land,
his promises,
your little dogs. We
slow for a porcupine,
porcupette waddling
behind, unafraid,
or blind. You wanted
a child, he didn’t.
We unfurl the map,
trace our fingers
along mountains, rivers,
roads. Find our way
forward into the night,
so much unknown
but this: your hand
clasped in mine.
Sebastian Merrill reads “Night Animals”
Sebastian Merrill’s poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from wildness, Passages North, The Columbia Review, LEON Literary Review, Broadsided Press, and NonBinary Review. He served as a reader for The Paris Review from 2019-2021 and was a staff-scholar for the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in 2022. He has received support from Friends of Writers, the Juniper Summer Writing Institute, and the Academy of American Poets. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. sebastianmerrill.com