In the room you are the absence of room. You are the nothing in my life that wants to become something. At the circus you are the flyer and I am the catcher but there is no circus. You won’t jump but I wait anyway. Religion helps. Today someone said: If you meet the Buddha on the road kill him. I’d kill your husband if you hadn’t already. I was four the first time I was killed. My brother walked me home a birthday cake; the next week he was asphyxiated. You always remember your first. Next up: my sister. My father lashed her to the banister for protesting the war. She whimpered softly all night. I snuck her Ritz crackers and a bowl of water. I tried to read my father’s knots but could not. She reached a cracked hand up to me. I took her hand and kissed it. Then I left. I died again that night but really who keeps track. You heard your parents’ hateful speech for decades. We had the good sense to avoid the L word for a time. I cracked first. But you could have. That’s the thing right there. There is always somewhere to fall from. We couldn’t remember who saved whom. Then you got ill and wouldn’t tell me. It wasn’t fair but I understood. You wanted me to kill you again. So I did. I had help. I’ve always been lucky that way. Now she’s dead too.
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