Loyalty is molecular,
rasps the night, its throat scored
with string lights.
But sister-in-law—
Klonopin sometimes
unrhymes your DNA from my wife’s.
Inside, you sling Simpsons quotes
about the boy from church
who pressed his lips to
your forehead and woo-hooed
(when you still left the house).
CVS bronzer bruises
your lemon-pith skin.
My daughter glances
from her skittish crayons
to your scuffling Purell-
bitten hands, pudged like hers. For
an instant,
all I want for Christmas is
a ransom note clasping
a shred of your billowing sweatshirt.
Then my daughter screams
at the crack
of purple’s spine. She screams
until uvular abrasion gags her.
And my wife’s irises
rise from the Formica table
like the condemned.
georgigeorgiev-eaab