All here, mature all at once, alive and making life and then gone. Clinging to the screen door. Missing skeleton. An intangible thought, seemingly become part of the molecular makeup of the screen itself.
Attempting to close them out results in further alienation from them and yourself, your own memories and everything you know about. Try closing the windows, phoning home, moving away. They persist, dry clouds, uncomplicated formations of brains and bodies. You are self-sufficient in that you get your own groceries and steal printer paper from work,
there is no reason to go
where you used to go.
But still somehow you catch yourself finding a wing
behind the sofa, in the lint tray, among the dirt and skin cells disintegrating under your nails.
Where do you go? Where are you now? What are you thinking about? What did you even do today?
Try calling home but offspring are typically abandoned at birth to prevent the parent generation from growing tired of your shit.
A letter or phone call home once a week over leftover boxes under the bed where a child,
who may grow up to be a neuroscientist or something along those lines—or not—don’t want to pressure you, just want you to be happy
is conceived, birthed, celebrated and cut out of its christening gown at the reception because for god’s sake Caroline it’s July and
Did you leave the curling iron on? Does something smell like burning to you? Is there water in the basement?
Greasy prints around the light switch and years of tea bags and oatmeal, borrowed hair ties and other insecurities, as if it were supposed to be like this
Fall in love with that one with the nice arms, get married, get angry, get tired, get angry,
un-fall in love, move away
All in the span of one Tuesday
Immature phase usually lasts a year in fresh water with careful avoidance of aspartame and never ever breast feed now because now thats what we’re doing now.
What did you even do today?
Is there water in the basement?