by Carrie Mannino
I woke up this morning to pee
and it was like the way
you have to remind yourself everyday for weeks
after someone dies that they’re dead
each day as you eat your cereal.
We fell asleep before the end of it
a full bottle of wine open on the table—
we thought it’d be a celebration.
At least we have each other, I thought.
My president hates me,
she whispered, another language on her lips,
her head in my lap,
And I answered
We hate him back,
false fire to try to make her smile.
But I don’t know if I’m allowed to laugh or exist today
as if every life around me has been corroded and consumed
and shoved behind a responsibility
to fix things.