My dad’s old white mini-van broke down
in the tiny back lot at the Oval––
the engine stalled on the highway,
and somehow he knew
it wouldn’t start again.
It was one of the few things
he got in the divorce
other than the green couch that came with his condo. 

The van sat on the patchy ice,
I left, unhelpful and claiming lateness.
he told me he’d take the train home,
that my mother would pick me up,
said––

MICAËLA CLARKE is a queer fiction writer and poet and a recent  graduate with a BFA in writing from the University of Victoria. Clarke’s work has appeared in Passengers Journal, The Galliard International Review, and the Warren Undergraduate Review.