I look at my dad laying on his side:
a shoulder pinned to neck.
Opposite arm relaxed, open-palmed.

His heavy body leaned on a crusty elbow
and you’d think his eyes swelled in utero
because he’d just fetalconjured the invention
of the television and its screen.

My brain swims in a bone basin
and I’m human because I can’t stop moving.
As narration and pixels flash in the bedroom,
(this room could be a womblike calm),
my dad is beached, rejected by the waters he denies.

In and out of sleep, he snores awake.
Other times my mom wakes him and says
she hasn’t stopped all day.
Sometimes families do not know to build safe spaces.
My brain shudders when I’m ****** and
when I have to weigh my cargo.