Carolyn Guinzio

A Sense of It

I have bad news. We arrived together. We walked down the long hallway and out of the basement and under the fluorescent-paneled ceiling. You were talking about being a child. You knew a full day before the rain would arrive, by the smell the air carried. You knew a full hour before the train would arrive, and who it carried. When you were a child, everyone thought there were two kinds of days: a normal day and a bad day. They desired a bad day so the tedium of a normal day would again be desirable. As soon as a bad day became more desirable than a normal day, you could see it in the way they looked at you. You used to think, how easy it would be to make them this gift. Maybe it happened that way. We left together, walking up the stairs and out of the basement where the ceiling was covered with fluorescent panels. You were talking about the news. You said, I climbed the tower, to see what was coming. The street was full before us. You said, I have bad news.

Carolyn Guinzio is the author of West Pullman, winner of the 2004 Bordighera Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in Colorado Review, 42opus, New American Writing, Octopus, Gutcult, Typo, No Tell Motel, Willow Springs, and elsewhere. A Chicago native, she lives in Fayetteville, AR.