2025 Peter Sears Poetry Prize Runner-up

Carla Macedo “Parking Garage”

 

At the top

of the hospital parking garage.

perched on my truck’s toolbox

I scan the windows of the COVID

floor, and see the hollow faces

of nurses floating through

the hall and wonder,

if any of them know you.

The line rings once,

labored breathing, I ask,

Can you flicker your lights for me?

 

The top left window of the highest floor

explodes with frantic light, I jump to the edge

of the truck bed, I wonder if I can tightrope

from the top of the parking garage to you.

 

Found you! I smile so maybe,

you can see the light of the moon reflecting

off my teeth. Your ghost, dressed in white,

passes by the window. Breaking out

into a cold prickling sweat,

I ask, did you just get up

to go to the bathroom?

 

Your heavy breaths rattle

stopping long enough to whisper:

No, I can’t get up. The tubes won’t let me.

But it was your ghost by the window,

clear as walking into Mom’s house

last month for posole and fresh tortillas.

I press my free hand to my mouth,

and start to cry. I don’t want to scare you.

I whisper back:

Oh it must’ve been the wrong room.

I can hear your sheets rustle.

I’m waving my arm. Can you see me?

I run to the end of the garage

and stand on my tiptoes.

Nothing.

Yes Brian, I see you.