What else, if anything, would I / outdare a bullet for, if not our country / to bury our grandparents in?
August 3, 2021
She leaves for an organizing meeting
again. Somewhere far off in a cabin
in Cle Elum or Southeast Portland.
I’m wearing the same sweatpants
I’ve worn since Tuesday, kneeling
on our bathroom floor, pulling hair
from the shower drain––our skull
ribbon clumped in a wet hole. I hand
wash wine glasses she placed in the sink.
Think of how she won’t use the same
glass twice––worries any left unused
will feel forgotten. Overseas an uncle
we’ve never met wants her fed
to crocodiles––Kara, Precious, &
Sarah Jane too. Their names posted
online already. Out loud I read terrorist
& can hear Brandon airlifted out of
my mouth, the glock going off &
off again. I spit up gloom & cover
my best summer shirt in blotches.
What else, if anything, would I
outdare a bullet for, if not our country
to bury our grandparents in? I put on
deodorant alone in our apartment
& remember my beloved
likes to share the same waxy stick
until we both smell of blue citrus.