nothing feels right at the end of July
no one knew that a few days later you’d be lying in the ICU
hooked up to tubes and a machine that kept you breathing
and now I count August by fives
one
it’s your birthday
five
it’s a hospital bed until
ten
we’re driving home and get the text
fifteen
why are we smiling at a funeral
twenty
wake me up, please tell me I’m dreaming
twenty-five
put on a smile so by
thirty
everything looks fine
but it isn’t
nothing feels right at the end of July because I know what happens next
from my third poetry book, Made of Earth.
