Drive 2208 1656 Kristin Garth

First time you say I’m driving off the bridge
I hyperventilate and wonder how
I will survive, on flowered tile, the ridged
linoleum remains, caffeine-free brown,
of soda spills, wet grieving, falling down
while mom says, chasing, keys in hand, then I
am too. And I’m alone, kitchen ground
forget-me-nots, bereavement bouquets tied
in ribbons, plastic death bequest, Raisin Bran
box clutched to chest. An orphan for an hour,
too short for bowls and spoons, I eat with hands,
like your return/apologies devoured.
The first time that you say it I am five.
The last time that you say it, I say drive.

Header photograph © Stephen Briseño.

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