white bright linoleum tile leering up in angled shapes on the floor my dad is bent over by the bathroom window, pouring ink-red medicine into a plastic cup. the sky, dark with sleep, is distorted to my eye through the frosted pane of glass. dad looks up at me, glasses askew, face hung like wet sheets on a line and hands me the cup tells me to go breathe in the dew outside maybe, (his eyes are pooled and ragged) it will help release your throat
the lights of empty streets, sharp as spines lie below, rippling like waves on a lake and above my head, i watch the ****** of light as they shimmer in the night and slide past to hide in the hills breathe in breathe out breathe in i am small and silly in my bare feet and little pajamas standing on the splintering wooden porch that hangs on the edge of my house dad slides opens the glass door behind me and comes to rub my back in slow circles and listen with me to the sound of hills echoing with the hum of rumbling semi-trucks running away into an unfathomed depth, somewhere i canβt see with my child eyes