by Michael Lauchlan

Young parents caught in the hot,
improbable grappling of marriage,
we heaved into a dumpster a large
misshapen chair, filling our lungs
with what remained of the week’s trash
and years of curdled grease.
We turned toward each other,
toward a beach we’d all but forgotten,
toward what we couldn’t hope to recognize–
a footpath leading here. Your father
had taken some labored breaths
in that chair while his grandchildren
buzzed past, unaware of the denouement
unfolding in his cells, his heart,
and his failing memory. Somehow,
so were we. Tonight, that old scene
won’t quite cohere–a worn
glovebox map, riven at the folds,
highways, a bridge no longer
reaching the curving local roads.

Michael Lauchlan has appeared in many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Citron Review, Rappahannock Review, Louisville Review, and Sugar House. He has received the Consequence Prize for Poetry. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave., from WSU Press. His next is forthcoming from Cornerstone in 2026.