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white-hot, unplanned, contagious.
Too quickly, she cools, pulls away.
Apology accepted. But no smile,
and she never doesn’t smile. I study
her face harder, find anger, concrete
in the set of her jaw, but eiderdown
sorrow in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She slumps against me, takes
refuge as her sadness flows, wet,
in steady tears. My dad walked out
on my mom. He wants a divorce.
THAT’S IT?
I’d like to feel sorry for her, console
her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.
But what I really want to say
is, “Big effin’ deal. Divorce?
At least they were together
while you were growing up.
At least you’ll get to see him
almost as much as you do now.
At least you know just who
in the bloody hell your father is!”
But that would take Nikki-Complete.
What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.
So I take her hand, lead her
into the kitchen, sit her at the table.
“I brought a little something
that will make you feel better.”
I twist one up, half expecting her
to say no. She only smokes weed
