I call my boyfriend

from the cobalt blue sheets

of a younger me’s bedroom.

 

Mama and papa are downstairs

watching a stuffy medical drama,

the smells of bacon and dog hair

wafting upwards to the popcorn ceiling

of our family home.

 

God, just make me patient enough

I hear myself say, twisting

beneath the ceiling fan

I broke when I was twelve.

 

Patient enough to be patient with them–

to not correct them,

to not snap at them,

to not let teenage fangs

rip through my gums.

 

I don’t want to waste any time,

not when there’s so little time left.

​

If it’s a wish,

I’ll wrap it in tube socks

and stuff it in the music box

still winking on my desk.

 

Let me be the best for them

so that they know I love them.

 

Let every minute be a blessing

in case that’s all that’s left.

 

I hang up the phone

and slink downstairs, curling

into the recliner

that was my mother’s mother’s.

 

I ask about the show,

throw a toy at Sassy’s feet.

​

She leaps to it

as weak November light

pulses warmly

in the room.