you remember when you were young, when you were eight nine ten eleven, when your mother would take you to the salon, to the little room where they would lay you down and strip you bare spread wax on your body like it was honey.
Every day you said you were dying. You chronicled symptoms on crumpled bar napkins: achy spine and shoulders, hard to concentrate, everything is loud. You told the girls at work you had to leave because you were sweating into the pixels around you and they...
I listen to the brothers in the dining room where hotel guests gather and sip weak cocktails out of glasses that drip long fingers of condensation. They sit with their wives and tend to their father, who dines at the head of the table.
and after he killed himself
you don’t shower for five days,
change your clothes, or brush your hair.
you want to sit shiva, but you’re not jewish,
don’t know what it means.
but for you, grief alone
doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse.