"Um, we're b-b-ba-babys-s-sittingfor
hersister. So, th-t-t-h-h-at'sw-hhy
wehavebabym-m-onitors-a-n-nd c-c-b-ribs,
and things." His voice tripped over
his syllables till everything he said
blurred into each other with no way
of separating them and giving them
each their own meaning.
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand
what you said." I awkwardly
scratched my neck in hopes that
I wasn't sounding too rude.
"Never mind," he brushed it off
with a flick of his slightly shaking
hand—oblivious that I caught onto
every small sign he had floating
around in his house. The little pictures
on the fridge of him and two little babies.
An ultrasound picture of two fetuses
framed, sitting on a little table in the living
room.
The
b e s t
d a d
shirt sitting at the top of
the pile of laundry neatly folded
and ready to be put away as we
walked down to the garage—after all,
didn't he say he lived with just his
mother?
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
