Fit for a Scarecrow

By Loukia Borrell

I never found your brown corduroy coat. It had a
quilted, lime green lining. We think you wore it
to the hospital. By the time we got there, they had
you hooked up to everything and you were stiff
with a tube down your throat. The big doctor told
me you were going to die as soon as those machines
were switched off, so I told him to do it. Now’s fine.

We sat on a rubbery sofa in your hospital room and listened
to the monitor beeping, fading and then stopping.
It took 25 minutes. I felt the hole in my
stomach right away and got up to massage your
toes and kiss you goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye.
I was so mean to you when I was younger, goodbye.

I wish I had your coat. I looked for it everywhere.
At the house. In your car. At the hospital. I didn’t
bother to ask mom because she was still waiting
for you to come back with fried chicken for dinner.
But that coat, you know? I could use the black
Izod, instead. Put you together again, six feet tall,
as a scarecrow in our garden, and from the sky you
will see yourself wearing that raincoat, arms
outstretched, reaching toward the Sugar Moon.

Loukia Borrell is a first-generation American. She was born to Greek-Cypriot immigrants in Ohio and has a journalism degree from Elon University in Elon, NC. Her poems have appeared in lit journals in the United States and United Kingdom, including Neuro Logical, The Bangor Literary Journal, Dreich, and elsewhere. She dispenses unwanted opinions on Twitter @LoukiaBorrell and has a website of her published pieces at loukialoukaborrell.com. She writes from Virginia.

Why we chose this piece: Loukia’s voice has a direct quality that gives us Dorothy Parker vibes. Yet she also weaves in these rich, heartbreaking images that feel like little gut punches. This poem is honest and beautiful.