Two Poems: “My Father Siphons Gas” & “Airspace”

By Erin Carlyle

My Father Siphons Gas  

from a car a few blocks over 
from where we’re living,  

and I am watching him—in a parked car  
down at the end of the road.  

This is a memory, how I see him 
in my mind now that I am older,  

and he is dead. I don’t know  
if the memory was just a dream. 

I see myself sitting in the passenger seat 
of that old, blue Buick. When he closed 

the door behind him, it shook, was louder 
than he anticipated—the doors  

heavy, metal, and he stopped  
for a second, waited to see  

if anyone would turn on their porch lights,  
but then with a hose tucked  

in his arms, he walked on. Was this a dream? 
I see myself under a crocheted blanket 

in the front seat, careful not to move,  
or make any more sound,  

and my father out there slinking 
in the night—poor thief  

in search of fuel, and then filling  
his mouth with gasoline. 

Airspace

Ghosts sit watching planes 
lift off and come back in—liminal  

space. A long time ago my dad took  
my brother and I to an airport  

just to ride the shuttle from one  
end to the other. We watched 

people board their flights, 
and then we watched other people claim  

baggage from the carousel. My dad—fresh 

shave, in his thirties, grabbed my face  
in his hands, so excited  

to teach me about traveling 
somewhere else only to come back home.  

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Erin Carlyle (she/her) is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetry can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Ruminate, Arts and Letters, Jet Fuel, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press. She is currently pursuing her PhD in creative writing with an emphasis on poetry at Georgia State University.