halfway between 16 and 30
unmoored
![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/667adfe861ff66001d39412f.jpg)
now the stream runs low. stupored.
the bugs hover impatient and I
must will myself to stand again -
contort my limbs (as if dancing)
in the summer's deadening
muddy music. Arriving here (?)
with an address twice-removed
in the back of my throat and
no appetite. I let him kiss me -
his mouth, all melted ice cream
and some aftertaste of affection I
fear I won’t make sense of for
another decade. Again, I want
an arm to hold on to but I startle
at the sound of someone in the next
room. He serves me peeled fruit
like I’m his five-year-old daughter.
I settle in, unmoored.
About the Creator
Erin Latham Shea
New Englander
Grad Student
Living with Lupus and POTS
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
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Comments (1)
Great Poem! ❤️💕❤️💕