(December, 2013)
Her fire reminds me of when I felt powerful. Who is this creature, pathetic, curled into bedclothes and crying?
I drink moonshine with cranberries outside I watch the moon
shine I slide my fingers down his back. He gifts coffee into my curled palms I drink it.
ask for more and more almond milk, willing it to be
not bitter.
today I will hold the baby, maybe shower, maybe eat some gluten-free cranberry bread. that my life is this simple, this privileged, this miraculous. and that I still press the palms of my hands into my eyes
and weep. he tugs at my forearms pleads speak, speak
I look to the ceiling. This is the diagnosis. I refuse to let the words enter my life.
