The Day Dolly Died

On the ground in front of The Underground, I find a large seagull feather and put it in my pocket. Across the street, a man caked in mud holds two pillows. A group of friends asks me to take their picture because it’s someone’s birthday. I tell them to show all their emotions, which I find funny since all I show on my face is a numb sort of sadness. While they pose by the hotel door, I imagine Heaven as a giant cake. When we die, we’re handed a candle that never burns out and told to find our sweetness.

When I resume walking, I hear fast footsteps behind me. Turning around, I see a man out of breath. “Hey mad dog, you got some change?” he asks. I don’t, but I’ve learned over the years that anyone asking for anything at night could use a smoke. He takes one, walks beside me for a bit and tells me I’m the kind of guy who would give the shirt off my back. Eventually, he peels off into the dark and I decide to head to the other side of the city to drop my feather in the lake as an offering.

On the way there, Megan sends me some words of wisdom from the Queen of Appalachia and it’s like Dolly’s singing me to the water. When I get there, I let the feather fall from my hand and watch it float like a ghost on the surface. I say a blessing for everyone I love, wishing that their pain may feel lighter. Maybe when that happens, my feather can unite with theirs to form a new, beautiful bird flying across America. How we can all chase after it anytime we want.

I Took Megan to Forest Lawn Cemetery, Where My Great-Aunt, Who Was a Nun for 80 Years, Is Buried

I’ll never forget the cold cut sandwiches she used to make me and the secret room she had full of candles and Jesus portraits. After making sure the fake flowers were still there, we headed to the bridge and found three deer cooling off in the water. It was beautiful, but then a man started talking to us from across the way. He was on something and terrified of the deer. “This is New York,” he said, “there shouldn’t be any white-tailed deer.” He then brought up the Tops shooting, claiming that just the other day, he was there and saw voodoo being performed on a woman in a wheelchair, which caused the cross hanging from his bus pass to burn. He pleaded with us to explain the spiritual meaning behind it, but the deer had already galloped away into the tweaking twilight, so I was at a loss. However, Megan told him the answer is inside. As he walked away, I looked at her the way a city looks at the moon, something to fill its empty rooms with the right light.

---

Justin Karcher (he/him, Twitter: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher.bsky.social, Instagram: justinkarcher) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre). https://www.justinkarcherauthor.com

Also from Justin Karcher:
“A Black Helicopter Hangs Over the City Like Mistletoe”