texts to abe lincoln
Jack Anderson
1.
abe, it’s been a century and a half
since we last talked. how the heck are ya?
my mom got rid of the bunk beds
when i was 10. i didn’t marry that girl
i liked in the first grade. feelin’ okay.
how are you? let me know.
2.
hey man, went to my museum finally,
took a picture with your wax family.
willie looks good. robert not so much.
he looks like a guy who’d put his mom
in the looney bin. learned that a horse
kick gave you a lazy eye. i bet it helped
you defeat the rebels.
3.
it’s so hot now that your head would melt,
and one statue of yours gave up this summer.
why’d you wear so many clothes? by the way,
i don’t mean to be weird texting you
instead of chatting with you in bed. it’s just
that my girlfriend sleeps with me now.
don’t act like you didn’t sleep with mary
even though you had separate bedrooms.
4.
i know you’re busy with the afterlife and all,
so i’m sorry for bugging you. i need advice.
everyone’s divorced lately. my parents,
my friend, my friend’s parents. what
did you sit and think about on those steamers?
was it mary’s credit card bill? the divided
nation? was it willie, ed? what kept
the ship’s coal burning while everyone
around you bled? thanks. send a tugboat.
5.
i need you. or someone like you. but
cell phones and climate change and nukes
might knock that hat off your big head.
6.
my dad signed his will last week. mom
sold the house. you might have the wrong
address. i’m in wichita now. it’s quiet
except for the wind. it speaks in gunshots
and bands playing in dive bars to no one.
illinois was like that, i reckon. except you
didn’t drink, didn’t shoot. you told stories.
7.
i won’t catch a break, will i?
they’ve moved your coffin 17 times.
your suit is moldy, but your whiskers,
the wart on your cheek, the melancholy
still there, last time they checked.
even now you can’t sleep—
the nice lady who guides visitors
through your marble mausoleum
will not shut the hell up.
8.
i think i last heard from you after
my great uncle’s funeral when i played
in the church elevator with my siblings.
you could hear my grandma’s laugh,
like a goose, from inside the doors
when we got stuck. she’s gone now,
but i can still hear her. your voice
was never in our home videos.
9.
they cranked us out of the elevator one
door at a time. then at dinner my dad
threw a club sandwich at me across
the table to share. mayo and cheese
sunk into my collar. i ate bacon
off my shirt and stared. his face
changed into a peach for being
sorry. i laughed and it was better.
10.
i used to think you were with me,
telling me what i needed to hear.
but you were really my mother
whispering to me
on the top bunk:
go to sleep.
Jack Anderson (he/him) is an MFA Candidate in Poetry at Wichita State University. His work has been previously published in Door=Jar, Mikrokosmos, and Quivira Literary Journal. He told me to tell you that poetry is awesome and should never die. So don't let it. Instagram: @jack.anders0n
