Four walls, two faces

Drumming from the TV

The final vote, a gasp, and spilled juice.

Pink bleeds into the fabric like it's a gunshot wound.

It’s going to stain, but

Mum just laughs—

•

—and spits in his face.

Four pairs of still lungs,

Three ticks from the clock,

Two hands curl into fists.

Someone moves, and we all scatter like roaches

as mom grabs a knife—

•

—in the kitchen, the lightbulb is flickering again.

He’s rung dry and faded blue, and talking like I’m ten feet tall.

Said I didn’t know everything,

and something that sounds like amends.

I swallow the glass in my throat

It’s okay, It’s okay, I repeat, but

I’m not ten feet tall.

Tell me about your classes

Is Tyler coming over on the weekend?

What do you want for your birthday this year?

How about if—

•

—I beat my brother to the pool this time.

Our third ice cream of the day

Sunscreen and sweat and—okay, the fourth ice cream of the day—

While they fight in the hotel room

And gnash their teeth at dinner.

I never want to go back

This is sun in my hair,

And sand in my toes,

And ice cream four—okay, five—times a day.

It wasn’t home but—

•

—he let me have my first beer.

A corona extra, no lime, and flakes of floating ice it was so cold.

The garage is a mess.

An old VW; a red Ducati; two mountain bikes gutted between us.

I offer to clean the chain.

It rattles for longer than he asked for,

but at least he knows I’m helping.

A rare smile when I finish

And a clink of his bottle against mine.

My head feels light, and I smile but—

•

—can’t see them in the stands

It wouldn’t be the first time,

but they said they’d come.

They said they’d come.

A yellow ribbon, then red, then blue.

My name is called, a weight placed around my neck.

My friends cheer and stomp on the metal stands.

My lungs ache from the race, I think,

I grin and try not to cry—

•

—the last time we locked the door.

Suitcases in the trunk,

and I can't help but think I need more clothes.

Two homes. Two lives. One wardrobe.

Dad gives me a hug, then mom.

Tense smiles, but he makes a joke and she laughs.

It sounds like hope,

and I can't help but think I need more clothes.

Two homes. Two lives. One wardrobe. One family.