Desolate colossal, the fossilized 
kitchen teems with almost-dead 
aliveness. Flies buzz bachata 
on molding blueberries, Ants march 
single-soldier line up the surface 
of my grief. Past the cheese rinds
and curdled milk, past the dishes 
now-piled up in the sink. Last night, 
I dreamed my mother had cancer. 
The ceilings shrunk. We both erupted
into electricity. In the mornings, 
her lungs rattle like a batting cage, 
three strikes and you’re out–– 
and we both know she’s no fan of baseball. 
Her mouth speaks nothing but sadness. 
My hands attempt silence, censor the sobs, 
but her canines bite into my soft palm. 
Suddenly, she contaminates, corrodes 
me as if by acid, eaten through like an apple, 
the seeds and core swallowed and settled 
into the stomach. We sit on either side 
of the marble island, reaching out 
across the incoming tide.