Morgan DePue
Morgan DePue is a neurodivergent Appalachian poet. She lives in Ashe County, NC, and teaches at Appalachian State University. She has published in Pinesong Anthology, Salvation South, Women Speak Anthology, and elsewhere. When not writing or teaching, she can be found wading in rivers, wandering hills, and cuddling her cats.
Aftermath: Or the fragmenting of time following a police shooting
It is January and time drifts
in scattered snowfall and sleet.
My partner says the panther
was a premonition of our neighbor’s death
the black cat he’d reportedly seen simply
a message coded in the primal fear
of falling prey to something unseen.
It is December 2022 and time falls
soft like rain at dusk.
I am walking with a crocheted bag
full of cookie tins.
A white-haired neighbor offers me a ride
asks if my car broke down.
He’s concerned because he’s seen me walking
but never with my pocketbook.
I decline. These tins are for other neighbors.
One day I’ll wish I’d given him a tin of cookies.
It is January 2024 and time moves
with the cold front and my street
is blocked by cops who refuse my right of passage.
The news gives more answers than they do.
I am told, three times, by the officer
fueled by his own ego and rage and fear
that he can call an ambulance
if I need medicine so bad.
Find another place to sleep besides your home.
“I’ve seen these things last for days.”
Nothing can disturb the 3-D scanning equipment
currently mapping the crime scene.
It is Summer and time burns
in the furnace of the sun.
A white-haired man says “Hot today”
as I walk the road.
It is January and time freezes and thaws
ignoring thermodynamic laws.
A different officer will help me, along with two others.
Passed between three sets of hands
I’m guided home
long after dark.
The man who walks me home is firm but kind.
They do not want me to see
what I do not not see
which is evidence
of how long he’d been left on the road.
I don’t look left, only ahead,
though
the periphery…
Before my house two deer pause
watch us approaching.
It is Fall and time clashes in lightning fracturing.
A white-haired man smokes a cigarette
by his truck.
There is a pistol on his hip.
It is January and time drifts
in scattered snowfall and sleet.
My partner and I walk to retrieve my car
from the other side of the crime scene
the road, our road.
On the way, there is the place
the darkened grass gripping
what remains.
My partner leaves tobacco on a sheaf of weathered pine
sprinkles tea
for a safe journey.
Moments are numb,
fragmented,
consequential,
and insequential.
In 2024, I wish I’d given him a tin of cookies.
