Poetry by L.I. Henley
“… last December when we spoke
a year ago & has it really been so long?
About Chelsea, I’m sorry &
there’s no easy way to tell you
but she passed
she
in a fire, an electrical fire
in the apartment above
her mother’s tea shop
She was sleeping
& I’d wanted to tell you
last year when we spoke
but it had been so long since we spoke
& that was too heavy a thing
to tell you just then
not when
you were sick
& not walking—
something to do with wheat?
A disease? You’ll have to fill me in.
Her mother … the parents …
they divorced afterward
& I know how much you loved
her brother, sort of an obsession,
right? He was such a man even at seventeen.
The whole family was gorgeous
especially Chelsea, the swimmer,
I’ll always remember her swimming
& how strong she was, remember?
Pure muscle, blond hair green from chlorine.
Her sister was the ballet dancer
who lent us tampons all the time.
I’m sorry & you’d just said Chelsea
was the one person from childhood
besides me …
& she was so young
twenty-seven
tragic
a shame
but I have my faith
& I believe Chelsea did as well
& you, L—,
what’s going on with you?”
L.I. Henley was born and raised in the Mojave Desert of California. An interdisciplinary artist and writer, her books include Starshine Road: Poems (2017 Perugia Press Prize) and the novella-in-verse, Whole Night Through. Currently, she’s writing personal essays about illness, love, and the Mojave Desert, which have appeared in Brevity, The Southeast Review, Southern Humanities Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Southern Review, Fourth Genre, The Los Angeles Review, and The Mississippi Review. She teaches English composition at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo. Visit her at lihenley.com.