dry retching –
there are things that remind me – of you (still?)/ scattered across the sky / in the way the grey banks / like it could snow?
(it’s 17 degrees)
and in how my / bread rips / because the butter is too hard / and I got impatient with / the toaster.
‘families are weird’
you tell me blowing / out your dart / directly into my mouth
(my fault for having it open)
and I KNOW / there are thousands of worm-hole openings / conversations I could start / among the clutter / of what we pick apart to hold / as our friendship
(I’m leaving tomorrow)
free-held early adult / of suburban walking home with too many groceries so the plastic bags we shouldn’t have bought dig into our palms and leave fighting marks until they’re gone / is momentarily over.
It will begin again and stop Adani.
For us and more likely for others.
and I guess too, we will find our own lanes/ in swimming pools in the open ocean / wonder at what made us whole / misplace that we even had grandmothers.
keep drowning but forget / call it home
(this is what they now label stoic optimism)