Jozie Konczal
When I Play “All Too Well” in the Car in Autumn, I Can Pretend You Are Alive
even I must forfeit every new note
written since the rain brought the spring
petals to their knees, even
if it means never ending autumn, forever
watching as the leaves outside our classroom
window carry their own caskets
to their graves. If I’m quick enough to start
it over, shoot the arrow back to the incomplete
C chord before the action falls, I can save myself
the trouble of building a bridge over
the bathtub I dreamt you into and can’t swim
my way out of. I can tread water for those
five shared minutes. Inside “All Too Well” you
and I watch trees turn their pages as though
from a great distance in the safe arms
of denial. We are both sick with nostalgia
for a time we thought we hated: stretched
afternoons, the long retired train tracks that
broke their promise to deliver us. In those
minutes I pretend you opened the seven years
of letters I keep sending about all the ways
the sun has found to kiss the skyline
and seal the day away. Without interrupting,
perhaps you admire how I roll the joints
now, or we talk about quitting.
The road speeds by and we remain
inside. The trees let go and I don’t
resent them for it. The sun can sleep
free from fear, by which I mean,
it wakes again tomorrow.
Jozie Konczal reads and writes from Alexandria, Virginia. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Hollins University. Besides poetry, she feels passionate about music, nature, and the protection of the world and its people. Jozie works as a freelance writer and as a staff member for Cleaver, a literary magazine based in Philadelphia. She considers herself to be an amateur yogi and an experienced napper. You can find her on Twitter @joziekonczal, and Instagram @yunganxietyoffical. To read more of her work, visit her website at joziekonczal.squarespace.com/publications.
