at the tip of the day, the moon was
almost full, just a sliver shy. silver
sliver. i picked blood from my ear. we
could all hear the dryer running, and
as my family sat reading five different
books and not speaking to each other,
my father ticked along with its sound.
earlier: my grandfather hummed
while he emptied the dishwasher,
happy to be useful in the family scheme
of doings and undoings. the way
he hums is like the shell of a pistachio,
the flimsy filmskin of a peeled navel
orange, just the outer edges of the
sound peeking through his teeth.
more wind than anything else. my
father hums the same way. i am
trying to remember how best to love them.
between: i watch the rainbow—make it
a double—over the ocean.
when the moon is as up as it will
be, i look at it for too long, letting
the light sear me viciously, beautifully.
to be so cold someday.
and my grandfather moves through
the house, turning light switches on
and off, all of them attached to
bulbs he can’t see. and me, waiting
for the thing which may not come.