Most everything held close finds a way to expel itself
from here. It may later resurface on a rain-soaked window.
Most other times, I’ll never see it again.

I practice smiling to strangers, unsure the shape my lips
make, convinced they must be red. I’m unsure how
often to apply sunscreen. I’m unsure how long

to microwave leftovers. Maybe they will become warm
anyhow. We weren’t allowed near the stove after
my brother burned his palm. He burned a bagel once.

I left the oven on once. Slow decay spread on the
plants my mother couldn’t keep alive; the color green
foreign to me until some time later. I fear I’ve forgotten

it again. I halted halfway down the stairs tethered by rocks
kept in my throat while my parents had a big talk. I’m unsure
how all this dirt settles underneath my fingernails. There is
sometimes so much wax in my ears, it becomes hard to hear.