by Sarah Elkins
My son takes a closeup photo of my face in profile
from the passenger seat. At the red light
he shows me the soft underbelly of my jaw,
how it’s giving up. What is this?! he asks
in mock disgust at my weakness in the face
of time. And, it’s true, I have forgotten
how to smile for cameras. I say fuck too
freely. I don’t swap my fork to the opposite
hand to cut my steak, haven’t taught him to
either. I pee in the shower and take swigs
of heavy whipping cream while standing
at the fridge suspending the carton over
my mouth without touching my lip to the rim.
I’m not a heathen, after all. I use the words
space and gravity and god interchangeably.
I blow my nose inside the collar of my t-shirt.
It’s allergy season so this is permitted. I have
laughed and laughed. I love this wet and
recyclable body that contracts to bleed, expands
into the waxing phase of the moon and repeats.
It takes so long to get that know-some-shit glow.
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