When my daughter spills her orange juice, I wipe it off the linoleum
with the old plaid boxers of the man I thought I’d marry.
Elastic ripped out, seams unraveling—I’ve had lives
already. At night they crawl across
my skin before I can turn on the light.
We spend all these years wanting, and then one day—sudden
as a lamp set to a timer—we have.
There were the nights I drank just so I could feel a little
more of my own unhappiness. Now, with my feet pressed
into this rug, I’ll never be that drunk again.
Before I went to the clinic to get pregnant, I cried onto the shoulder
of an old flame, worried that whoever I loved next would never know
my body when it was beautiful.
How could I have been wrong about so many things?
2019
Shorty
Contemporary
2020
Body & Body Image
Family
Love & Relationships
Alliteration
the repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning of words appearing in succession
Caesura
a break between words within a metrical foot
Enjambment
a line break interrupting the middle of a phrase which continues on to the next line