slick slippery sticky
I try I try I try
to wash this nauseating nostalgia off my nineteen-year-old knuckles
gently bruised — busted yellow
by my fifteen years of fingers
searching blindly under the couch for my nine year old self

I’m running, you know.

I pinch my fingers, close my eyes
take me back to 2012
when broken crayons replaced broken teeth
to daddy and his empty threats:

your lips will turn withered and white if you don’t put on this damn lip balm!

my brother and me:
fits of giggles and stretched up spaghetti arms
reach up and up and up (so daddy can reach)
wait … impatiently:
dad, won’t you rest a calloused hand on my slender wrist?
paint an oily halo round my lips?
dad, will you let me rub my cheek against your stubble?
just one more time?
for old times’ sake?

… you already know I’m running away
so if I sneak into your car tonight, will I find a tube of carmex in the console with the cigs?

(say, did richard tell you he buys burt’s bees now?)
and did you tell him
your pockets no longer jingle with the promise of coins
waiting to be swallowed by the century-old gum-ball machine (at the hardware store)?

you know I ran away years ago.

so you won’t be surprised when I tell you:
the snow seeped into my converse, and they’ve already forgotten the kinetic kiss of our cracking driveway
and the shriek of sweet mama to
take off your shoes!!
I’m trying not to spill my coffee as I picture her: sunday morning, all dressed up, rushing me to
quick! put on your dress!
I want to tell her I always take my sneakers off before I step into my dorm
I want her to tell dad that I always carry lip balm
that I still use carmex
that my left hand is clutching a tube right now in the fleece of my north face, stolen from my sister
I want her to tell dad that I promise my lips won’t go withered and white.

Sarah Down ’27

The Indicator x The Student: “Carmex”