by R.B. Simon
A warble of light creeps through the slitted shades. It’s six in the morning. Upstairs,
spouse is sleeping, exhausted from pregnancy, one foot naked outside the comforter.
Downstairs, daughter is barely awake, hoodie up, eyes bolted to her cell phone.
TV, mirror black and silent, droops antenna from the top, tethered angel wings.
On the bookshelf, mom’s crystal vase and grandma’s china bowl lie two shelves apart,
dust-covered as my wilted orchid, deprived of its weekly three ice cubes.
Handed-down baby gear shoved to a corner, no official nursery yet for baby.
Clean laundry sits unfolded in a white plastic basket on the couch.
Daughter emerges from her bedroom, dressed, fishes a sweatshirt from the basket,
finds the All-Stars among too many shoes by the front door, which spill
off the mud rug despite my efforts to line them up. The dogs whine at the door
after she leaves. I watch her through the picture window. The parched lawn
needs cutting again, a basket of was once florid purple petunias sags on the porch.
I turn away from the window as the dogs settle in my lap.
I surrender the struggle, wait to float to the surface.
R.B. Simon (she/her) is a queer, black, disabled writer who has been published in pacificREVIEW, The Coop Poetry Collective, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama, Obsidian, and CALYX, among others. Her first full-length collection, Not Just the Fire, was released in March 2023 from Cornerstone Press. In her free time, she enjoys creating visual art, napping, and coffee-flavored caffeine. She is currently living in Madison, WI with her spouse and two-month-old daughter. Learn more at www.rb-simon.squarespace.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 