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

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