What can I offer?
A warring world where life is bereft of meaning.
Father on an amphetamine-fueled jag.
Mother, a dark figure, a smoke-like wraith moving through the house.
I stare and move my pen to the din of caffeinated voices, a garbled television, a tinkling piano.
The house is old and made out of coquina rock painted pale green.
I’m shoehorned in between them, and perched on the edge of my seat.
A whippoorwill spits an urgent call.
Someone will come in and check for irritation at 9:10.
Overnight the snow will turn to slush, then a sheath of ice.
What I’m Reading:
“The earth is warmer.
The crickets are still singing,
rehearsing for the last day.”
— Victoria Chang / “To the Hand”