There, while I slept, we
were together, moving under
jutting rocks, loose stone

falling on our windshield.
My dead father sat next
to me as I drove the car.

I kept an eye on the road,
while simultaneously stealing
glances at my passenger.

He said no more than a few words.
The wind, he whispered, never
changes. Feels the same here, every-

where. At the end he couldn’t eat
or walk or read or speak. The body
shriveled in twisted silence.

Barely breath, or any type of move-
ment. It is the silence I thought
of then. The silence I think of now:

I can steal, for a second, any quick
image. The glancing light on a bag
of piss. White lighter left motionless, 

covered in dust, on the nightstand. 
His right hand, gnarled from work. 
The silence I see with closed eyes. 

Everywhere, light on top of dark water.



About the Author: Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.