Evan Vandermeer

Dormant

Looking at the only picture I have of him, a stranger might think he was my father rather than godfather. I’m seven, maybe eight, laughing as he holds me upside-down by the waist. He’s laughing too, under a full, black mustache.

For the first time, I notice my twin sister is in the picture as well—at the bottom, in the foreground, the back of her blonde head all that’s visible, almost blending into the carpet he’s suspending me above. It’s clear she’s looking up at us, but with her face turned it’s impossible to tell if she’s laughing along.

cocoa mulch
too dark to find
the keyhole

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About the Author

Evan Vandermeer lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he completed his MA in English at Indiana University South Bend. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Twyckenham Notes, Eunoia Review, Jersey Devil Press, Grand Little Things, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. His haiku and haibun have appeared or are forthcoming in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Presence, contemporary haibun online, and elsewhere.