Sonnet Written in Disappearing Ink
You know how it is in dreams. The house is
also an airplane. The airplane is broken.
The airplane can still fly. The dining table is
both outside the house and yet within.
My brother is married to his ex-wife.
I live there. We have bunk beds on the plane.
The silverware’s all rusted but one knife.
Three children carve a turkey in the rain.
Then I’m awake in darkness all alone,
the ceiling fan abuzz above my head.
I watch the blurry blades in monotone
before I grab the notebook by my bed.
I write what can be true only in the night.
My brother was so happy. My brother was alive.
Heather Truett is an MFA candidate at the University of Memphis and an #actuallyautistic author. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, recently released from Macmillan. She has work in Hawaii Pacific Review, Constellations, Rust+Moth, and others. Heather is represented by Hilary Harwell at KT Literary and serves on staff for The Pinch. Find out more at heathertruett.com or visit her on Twitter (@mmerubies).
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Grand Little Things 
Heather: As one who has gone mano a mano with the sonnet form for many years, I’m always inspired and humbled when I come across a sonnet that is formally accomplished and thematically astute. I’m not going to do what no doubt they do in your MFA class; I simply want to commend you for this evocative and quite haunting piece of work, particularly if I’m not mistaken the hexameter in the last line. Form will out, and this extra measure speaks volumes. Thank you for your craft and art. Robert Graham (April 12 post).
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Thank you! I rarely write a sonnet on purpose, but this seemed like it needed to be one. 💕
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