Breadcrumb #585
CHELSEA FONDEN
remember the view from the porch in the forest glade,
the night like a test tube around you
sizzle & spark, moon wafting
the way you held hands and your breath
when your co-workers won’t stop complaining about vacation homes
and everybody’s not answering because they’re struggling,
or they’re pouring out, fast
as tea from your grandmother’s kettle—
when the steam hit her skin she muttered hell’s bells
and other things in Swedish you got the gist of.
you weren’t related, but you still say you’re Swedish
and maybe you are
because no one knows who your grandfather’s father was,
some man named Rodney
remember when you get bad news,
maladies common as popsicle sticks—
the hope is
we all vote to live.
glossy photos of you praying as a child
torn down the left third, what else
isn’t covered by insurance, everyone’s turning up
in the emergency room where you
don’t look too closely at the walls,
another type of plasma screen.
you know a lot about Medicaid
you leak out in little pieces —
glasses are free but they make you choose from a selection
in an ugly little briefcase
doctors brandish like a favor
the sky bright enough to see without them
and strangers kept your eyes for a minute instead of shoving—
remember the view