The Passenger
My teenage daughter tells me there are times
when she wishes she wasn’t here—
I try to hide my panic as she sits on her bed,
not looking at me,
fingers tracing the creases on her sleeve.
Before she can finish the sentence,
the rest is already in my throat—
I sit down and wrap my arm around her,
stinging tears already matching hers.
I want to say, me too, sometimes.
I want to say, it’s been with me
for years, this quiet passenger—
the wish not to die, but to just
not exist—
never have existed.
What can I say to fix her,
when I don’t even know how to fix myself?
Lump in my throat, I whisper
it’s all going to be ok,
that it’ll get better with time—
I choke on the words.
I tell her that I stay for her—
and I need her to stay for me—
she’s not a burden, she’s the tether
that keeps me here on the hard days.
She whispers she loves me too.
We hold each other for a long time,
sobbing.
We don’t fix each other,
but we stay.
*
Scratches and a Bent Shifter
My eight-year-old brother blazed around the house
on our new red and white Honda Z50R motorcycle,
revs climbing with each lap.
At the end of the gravel he turned too fast,
leaned too far—
tipped over and slid to a stop,
metal grinding on rock.
The engine sputtered out.
I stood frozen as Dad’s footsteps came fast behind me,
bracing for his shoulders to square,
for the sharp holler—
we’d just wrecked the new bike
he’d gotten us for Christmas.
Instead, I heard a soft voice:
“Does anything hurt?”
He knelt beside my brother,
freed his pinned leg and helped him to his feet.
I had to clear my throat:
“Dad, is the motorcycle broken?”
He glanced at the scratched tank and bent shifter, then at me—
“It’s just stuff. I can’t replace my kids.”
As the engine cooled, the ticking slowed—
so did my breathing.
My eyes left the bike,
still lying in the gravel,
to Dad brushing the dust from my brother’s jeans.
*
Letter from a Turkey
Mom lets me check the mail today.
I march through the crunchy leaves to the mailbox.
Among the junk and bills—
an envelope with grandma’s handwriting.
For me.
I run inside and shout for my little brother and sister—
“Come see my first letter!”
They crowd around me on the faded blue recliner
as I carefully open the flap.
Three pages unfold—
a collage of rubber stamps, hand-drawn pictures,
magazine cutouts and stickers,
her handwriting weaving between them all.
A turkey sticker next to the words “Do you ever feel like”
and BIG cut from a magazine twice.
Trevor giggles— “A big turkey!”
Mom taps a heart stamp with a bite missing,
“she forgot your birthday and feels terrible about it.”
I scowl at the piano stamp reminding me to practice,
then groan at the pun she built—
sticks and a honeybee:
“It sure wood bee great if you lived nearby.”
Then, at the bottom—
Two stick figures, grandma and grandpa,
arms stretched from edge to edge of the page,
blue ocean waves stamped underneath.
“We love you THIS MUCH.”
Lindy traces the waves with her fingers:
“It’s like the whole ocean.”
I fold it carefully,
tuck it in the envelope.
Thirty years later, I pull it out.
My own kids piled on me in the recliner—
little fingers tracing the ocean waves.
My daughter asks,
“Can we read it again?”
I tell her yes—
but if the house ever catches fire,
save grandma’s letter first.
*
Austin Petersen is a Missouri boy transplanted to Utah, where he lives with his wife and five daughters. He came to poetry late, convinced for years that anything he wrote would pale in comparison to his influences. When he finally admitted this to his oldest daughter, she called his bluff and bought him a book of prompts. They in fact do pale in comparison to his favorites, but here we are anyway. As an AI technology sales engineer by day, he is drawn to the analog of putting ideas to paper. His poems explore memory, fatherhood, and the stories that shape us—particularly the childhood moments we carry without knowing why. This is his first publication.