by Melody Wilson

The borrowed projector continued to click
as I walked into the room.

I had a question or a problem—I
might have knocked. Maybe not.

My mother leaned against the headboard,
my father’s feet were on the floor.

He faced the window—some kind of anguish,
images flickered on the wall.

Things were strewn across the bed:
clothing, papers, wrappers; a drink

on the nightstand, sweated in the sweltering
heat. The projector case stood

on the dresser, its lid thrown open, plastic
handle rising in a stifled “O” above

the immaculate lining of the empty box.

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Melody Wilson lives and teaches near Portland, Oregon. She has one Academy of American Poets Award, and several smaller awards including a 2020 Kay Snow award. Her work has appeared in The Portland Review, Visions International, and Triggerfish Critical Review.