"Let's have lots of babies
and grow old."
He told her in a card.
Six years before she left
and one before the birth
of her last three children.

"Let's have lot's of babies
and grow old."
He promised her that birthday,
on an over the top card
that clearly showed
the light in which he saw her.

"Let's have lots of babies,
and grow old."
He begged her
as she packed her things,
us along with them.
Leaving him with an empty heart
and empty drawers.

"Let's have lots of babies,
and grow old."
He scrawled in his neatest chicken scratch.
The only thing that left in a drawer
years after she changed her mind.

Or perhaps she always knew,
and the day she took my fathers life
was the first day she quit lying  to herself.

In the fifth grade
I was invited to to go to this party, a sleepover for these twins,
who i had been friends with for almost my entire existence
I arrive: Excited
I sit down: calm
I go into the kitchen: Absolutely horrified
     Welcome to my first experience with anxiety
crying in the bathroom, I call my mo to come pick me up
I leave: Calm, confused
The First day of 7th grade
I have class with this new teacher, miss scott,
Walk in: excited
sit down: horrified
Crying in the classroom i get excused to the nurse
I leave: embarrassed, confused

Freshman year first time
Inhale
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10
Exhale
"Feel anything yet?"
" how am I supposed to know?"
"Try again"
Inhale
1,2,3,4,5,6,7. cough

As much as I like to think i did
I did not get high.

Sophomore year
More anexity no ****

Junior year

I prefer water over air.
Before my parents divorced,
I was kept alive in my mother's womb by water
before air even made a home in my lungs.
I was born and baptized in water,
water that the Catholic church labels as pure,
pure like the tears of joy
that ran down the faces of my parents
on their wedding day.

Growing up, I told them
I wanted to be an astronaut
so they took me to the community pool
and I was almost convinced
I was floating in space,
but I could still hear their rings
clanking though the water.

Water kept the flowers alive in my mom's backyard
and provided something to wash my dad's dog with
Water brought him back when he went overseas
and water was the only thing
that could short-circuit his phone,
where the text messages were sent through air.

You see, air gives the privilege of flying away,
air passes through my dad's lips
when he whistles a song I don't hear anymore,
it gives him the voice to say, "I love you"
to his new family.

My fondness of water grows from
seeing old family beach photos,
the ocean is captured like the smiles on their faces,
air isn't visible
Water makes the sky blue
the same sky that ties together our broken family
It keeps the wetness in my mouth
so I can pronunciate the words
"mommy" and "daddy"
Water makes me float in zero gravity like
their astronaut again
Water is the familiarity
in the old pipes of our house
Water is mixed into the church wine
we went to on Sunday's.

It was my mom's safe substitute for alcohol
when my dad left.  
Water quenched our family,
but I guess
drowned my dad.

she didn’t cry
when she got the news
she didn’t cry
when the heart monitor flat lined
she didn’t cry
even when he was six feet beneath the ground
she didn’t cry
it was when
she lay on the soft lush grass
of the backyard they used to play in
that she cried
and let the stars witness her pain

e.m