I Have Good News
We were telling names,
that’s all—”But what’s Nonny’s
whole name, I mean?”—when
his face drew in at the center
like a blanket in a fist, and he
said it: “Are we going to die, mama?”
and I knew what he was asking.
It had nothing to do with
monsters in closets or bad guys
with guns. I knew what he was asking,
and he wanted the truth that
he already knew, so I said it.
And I held his small body, shaking
with sobs of honest fear, and I
cupped cheeks and kissed nose
and spoke all that I know:
“You are here. You are here.”
Courtney Thrash writes in the foothills of the Ozark mountains where she lives with her husband and son. A fifth-generation Arkansan, she is inspired by the land’s simple beauty and by her modest roots grown therein. Her work often combines a celebration of home with a restless exploration of small-time existentialism. Her words have been published in The American Scholar’s weekly poetry column, “Next Line, Please,” at For Every Mom, and are forthcoming in Rogue Homilies.