Shawna Ervin

U

Uncle’s eyes unseeing like his brother’s, my father’s. Uncle’s thick, black, ugly hair bunched under his thinning Western shirt, the top button unbuttoned, more hair rising past the button, the collar, to meet his neck where a bit of skin wobbles when he laughs, when he throws his head back like his brother, his lips pulled back from his yellowed teeth. U is my hand around uncle’s arm, the link from my unease to his guilt, his need to my shame. “I want to know,” he wrote in his letter, “why I can’t see, why you can.” U is for unemployment or uneducated, for eyes unable to discern son from daughter, counter from couch, moon from small star. There are memories of Father, his underwear slipping off, his hands lost under my nightgown. U is for making a girl unholy night after night, for urge and unravel, for numb. U is for uncle reaching for my hand now, not understanding why I was quiet, why I pulled away.

Shawna Ervin has an MFA from Pacific Lutheran University. She is a poetry reader for Adroit Journal and founding faculty of the Tupelo Press Teen Writing Center. Shawna is an alum of Bread Loaf and Tin House. Recent publications include Bangalore Review, Tampa Review, Cagibi, Synkroniciti, Rappahannock Review, The Maine Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and elsewhere. Shawna lives in Denver with her family.