dry mouth

Tell me I didn’t ruin your childhood.

The TV is muted. The storm is distant.

Even the verbs aren’t working.

No clatter, no crackle, no sound.

No memories to beat with the broom

or the belt. What’s left feeds sobs

into the throat and sweat into the hair.

If the dog wasn’t dead, it would lick the air

and beg for more attention from our locked eyes.

Dry mouth outstrips my lips.

I am left with nothing but a nod. A lie.

You are good. Good needs redefined.