The Finishing Project: Installment Eight
Sundays are My Day to Sleep In
The day began
with unnerving sleep.
Where is she?!
Oh. Dad's got her.
Rushed. Cold coffee
Reheated leftovers for breakfast
He cooked with headphones on.
He never does that.
He must be stressed.
Cheeks flushed with action and irritation
and I realize I am horrible
at holding any of his negative emotion.
Since he almost never has any,
I've never had to practice.
Another reason to believe you'll be a shitty mom.
Which requires both a ferocious attachment and slick letting-go.
it's going to hurt
I showered carelessly, not having to listen for her.
We drove, bickered, silenced.
Your playlists, the country roads
hiding in the red room,
note to self: she is a great social excuse.
Soft cotton dress from France.
Rocking us both
Overtired and perpetually hungry.
Shaky man with used hands of dark leather.
He love kids and grows sweet tomatoes.
Every time, the same excuse, "My balance isn't what it used to be."
I hug him anyway. Hard.
I wrote you a poem, but it's not good enough.
Too estranged to make new memories,
We sit reminiscing about the old ones.
Yesterday you obeyed me.
Now you flit and flirt about my head like a mosquito.
Annoyed, I cannot ignore you, but I cannot pen you down
or swat you dead
Once and for all.
We all yawn together in the easy night.