Poem by Zoe Shelton
Art by Keeley Sieben
waking up
at regular intervals
whether in my
own bed
or
someone else’s—
yours even.
although it confuses me,
when at one moment
you are screaming
at me for having forgotten
to pack our moon shoes
because we are leaving
for mars
within the half-hour,
and the next you are mumbling
softly beside
me,
stories winding like
ribbons attached
to paper boats,
young boys squeal in delight
as their creations
streamline through
blue and green.
last night we had
a child though we
ourselves
are still children
and you loved that baby
with all that you
had
(which given our little
age and mounting student debt
was not a lot).
your big hands
nets to wrangle
squirming fish
from wild waters
and i am still on shore
being barred
from another restaurant,
my friends and i
dipping our heads
into buckets of grenadine
flavored youth.
i could not figure
out how to
hold
the baby.
he recoiled from
my garlic-laden
breath
(still botching
recipes
from my own
mother),
while your hands
cracked as blacktop
in the summer,
tar bubbling up
with a secret no one is telling
me,
tossed him and caught him in
the air with ease
like dough already
rested and ready
for the new day.
i woke again
feeling like
i had lost
something
monumental:
something i was aching
to get rid of like
worthless change.
but i could still feel
the space where it
was
the space that you loved
and i tried not to hate.
tonight
i see the moon
lasting forever,
a bao
steaming until it
becomes soft
and gooey and
melted,
eventually
spilling fat globs
of barbeque
pork onto my head,
and i just wish
morning would come
again.