by Kaitlyn Park
Nan left the milk glass
on the table, emptied,
the dusty table I looked
at all my life, polished
clean, now full of grime
I wanted to help her, God
knows I did, but I only had
my two hands and a life
full of youthful nothing, all
energy spinning a circle and
When we loaded up her things
I thought about how unfair it was
that I had no healing power, that
I could barely offer her words
in those final days.
I don't understand it, but I know
Last night, I dreamed that they
wanted me, that powerful hands
reached for me and wanted to drag
me back into a cage
How I ran for the door my mind
created, how I hopped in the car,
checking over my shoulder, and
that's still just a shadow of the real
horror that was, not that long ago.
The GPS is not working
because we are too far removed
from the rest of the world,
and the baby is crying
We don't even have a baby, I'm
talking about myself, I guess,
because I remember the sound
of my whine and now pity you
We drove bass-ackwards all over
and never found or destination,
finally seeing the welcome sight
of a few dotting lights, and I never
rejoiced at the sight of a Denny's
so much in all my life.
Good Morning Baby
I hear the bed creaking, which
tells me you're awake, even when
you aren't here
I go sniffing for you in the middle
of the night, reaching and not finding
but occasionally you are there
That's a welcome moment in my life
and I don't want to miss those times,
want to collect them and pile them up
Comforts in a far corner of the room
for the huddle up in.
I know, I know, on the outside
I look like a ballerina.
The doctor tells me I'm too small.
I should gain some weight, but
the pounds of ice cream don't seem
to help. I'm sure it will catch up.
In spite of my petite being, you
should hear me snoring. I recorded
it once, like the secret weapon, like
the late-night sneak attack.
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