The table saw interrupted the carpenter’s banjo—
Brian’s two fingers fell
to the floor.
Now I’m the girl who weeps uncontrollably at work
sobbing like when my car spun down St. Mathews
interrupting a class full of silence.
Crying when Madame Wagner called me to the front to recite Baudelaire
and I couldn’t, but can still feel the cool pink tiles against my forehead as I knelt
in the bathroom and wept.
I could do half of Howl but she didn’t care and left
to become a flight attendant, her dream
to fly the world,
which seemed so huge and forgiving the morning Helen Warner
interrupted our English class to tell us that Brian’s hand
had been sewn back
and he would still be able to play guitar—
All of us losing our pages and thinking
anything is possible.
Alana Joblin Ain grew up in Philadelphia. Prior to making Brooklyn her home eight years ago, she earned her B.A. at Oberlin College, studying English and Religion. Alana received her MFA in poetry from Hunter College, where she currently teaches creative writing and literature. Her writing has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Quarterly West, RealPoetik and The New York Times.
Image by Martin Benninge