(Static) Becomes (Scripture) — Kennedy Shivers

I set the table for two—

but only

one plate

waits.

Steak & potatoes hiss—

his favorite—

mine now

by inheritance.

When he was alive

I never cooked.

Now I burn my fingers

for ghosts.

His chair—

a phantom.

His laugh detonates—

bright / messy / impossible—

fireworks drowning underwater.

I save his spot

on the couch

every week—

our shows still queued—

as if Netflix

would be able to resurrect.

Rows of sneakers—

bright tongues / rubber teeth—

silent sermons

of a sneakerhead.

I dust them like relics.

Pretend they breathe.

I replay voicemails

until static becomes scripture.

One I replay

an unhealthy amount:

“I’ll be home soon.

I love you.”

It echoes louder

than silence ever could.

I look up to the sky

to talk to him—

clouds like crumpled napkins / stained with things I never said

holding my words.

I tell him about my day—

about the ache—

about how grief tastes

like iron.

When people say “my dad”

I choke—

words calcify

in my throat.

No pity.

Just silence.

Just the ache

humming like an air conditioner

he had loved way too much.

Grief claws.

Grief curls

around my ribs—

smoke I can’t blow away.

Some nights I wake—

thinking he is still here—

thinking if I speak

he’ll answer—

half-joking / half-miracle.

The house holds his absence

like a secret

it refuses to tell.

But sometimes—

just sometimes—

I hear him

in my own voice—

and wonder

if survival means:

to live with echoes,

to love what will never return,

to push through—

for him—

for the sneakers—

for the laugh

detonating in the dark.

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Kennedy Shivers is a poet and dual-enrollment student at Broward College, completing her high school diploma while pursuing an Associate of Arts in South Florida. She has been writing since childhood and still hasn't stopped. She writes about grief, Black identity, and the specific weight of growing up in spaces not built to see you. She believes language is the most honest tool we have. She is not done yet.