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Before Privacy
The car windows sweat in the cold night
warmed from within by our heavy breaths.
Facing you, I crawl onto your lap
my knees press into the back of the seat.
The stick shift and seatbelts dig into
our thighs and backs as we move.
Your fingers fumble over clasps
and I peel away your damp t-shirt
to wrap my lips around the salty skin
of your collar bone.
As my eyes set on your shoulder’s horizon,
I glimpse the headlights illuminating the yellow
dead end sign bolted to a metal barrier
at the edge of the asphalt.
Butterfly Photograph
Outside on the backyard’s wooden porch
of our home in Oceanside
my brother and I are snuggled
into our separate sleeping bags
mine orange, his blue
wiggling with excitement
like giant floppy caterpillars
as our Mother catches us
in the flash and whirr
of the camera.
Our father stands in the background
with a head of thick, black hair
and too small college running shorts.
He is roasting marshmallows
on straightened wire hangers
over our red barbeque.
His young, proud smile
matching our missing-teeth grins.
He is still thinking he can do it
build a world of magic
to cocoon his children in.
The setting sun colors the
photograph a dusty red
blurring our suburban camp ground
making the memory
as fuzzy as a dream.
Last Day on the Children’s Oncology Ward
the television flickers and chatters
in the background
and the last dose of red chemo
slides down the plastic tube to the needle in my chest
My mom and I watch the drowsy hand of the clock
almost time for the night nurse
to peel back the medical tape and gauze
revealing the needle buried in my skin
and to begin her ritual of coaxing it out.
after nine months of treatments
the last minutes are chaffing
like an old band aid colored black
around the edges
or heels raw from days of lying in bed
my mom gets up from the pale green chair
joints grinding into new positions
she makes an excuse to leave for a minute
the bathroom or candy from a vending machine
I don’t move from my sweaty pile
of starch hospital sheets and pink pajamas
she returns the plastic cushion giving way
to her familiar shape
I can feel her crying
but her tears are for Janet
same cancer, same age, a room two doors down
we go to see her, pulling my IV pole with us
her family is there clinging to the walls
waiting as her cheeks swell and eyes empty
I touch her hand
the night nurse comes and removes the needle
silently wipes iodine on my wounds
out in the cold air of the parking lot
I rip my blue ID bracelet from my wrist
as my mother packs flowers, teddy bears, and vomit bowls
into our car
I shiver sucking in air
trying to feel free
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