Closure
by Loisa Fenichell
Mostly we are cross-legged
on the living room floor.
Television glows in & out like a comet,
only less beautiful. Flies circle
in abundance around
the open containers of hummus
resting on the windowsill.
In the kitchen, I bake loaves
of bread, pretending that I am
a child star. The lesson
I am learning is that we fall first
for those who understand.
When they cease to understand
we slow-dance, pray like those small ants
crawling over the discarded PB&Js
within the silhouette of the empty
playground across the street.
Recall when the silhouette made
so much noise, rose up like boys
& their growth spurts. I speak
to nobody on the telephone, in fits
of startled confession. Break-me-open,
break-me-not. I have gone unrelieved
& frantic as a strained animal. The lesson
I am learning is that other animals lose
their blood just as easily. Lose their kin.
Kinship, I study you easily.
I turn you into something candied.
Apples rot. Pizzas warm, leftover
on the counter for weeks. Sticks
of jam across the bottom of the bathtub.
My parents would hate this apartment.
My underwear has gone unwashed.
My greatest mistake is that
I never asked if you were tired.
Loisa Fenichell is a graduate of SUNY Purchase College, where she double majored in Creative Writing and Literature. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in various magazines, such as Winter Tangerine Review, Porridge Magazine, and The Nervous Breakdown. Her debut collection, all these urban fields, was released July of 2019 by nothing to say press. She is an MFA candidate at Saint Mary's College of California.
