past 11, “i hate family weddings”,
i want to shout. irritated, i daub cotton on
stubborn mascara eyes-
“…a job in the north. L.
he will be leaving” a découpage of murmurs-
hair untoweled, i rush outside
“what’s his name again?” dad asks,
“L,” and suddenly the sky comes crashing black
“you sure, Mr. X, it’s him leaving?” the words choke-
“guy in the green ‘ouse? him? you talkin’ ’bout him?”
my mouth is so dry i can
almost taste blood and
his reply stings the super moon.
and her amber is lost.
i hold my head in my hands.
to stem the spinning.
retch. suck in parcels of no-oxygen.
the streets fall bare.
i can’t cry.
i sway in a rhythm, sleep hanged,
spent on pills, afraid-
if i let go of my knees,
if i even move the tiniest fraction of an inch
i might physically break.