Late summer, hot heat, I navigate my wants, my
skincare, SPFs. It is Real Feel 114 degrees
and I cannot seem to get a fucking grip. My own
mother’s hands, her pink lines in AutoCAD,
my father, early in alcohol induced dementia
asks me to help him log into ESPN on the TV,
tells me his password is 1Absolution and I’m
wrecked, afloat in a pool, charmed but cursed.
All this to say I cannot imagine not wanting.
All this to say I cannot swallow my sorrow.
Stranger’s voice in my iMessages, recorded
in New England, different father, different story,
all of us suffer in quiet rooms. Shut the fuck up, I
whisper to myself in the dark, an ocean away.
Kelly Sikkema