Locks & The Year I Turned into My Father
By Mackenzie Moore
Locks
The lonely lonely gnawing, at night
like you passed out on the couch
no dinner, doors unlocked
wet laundry wasting away
You thought the maladies
would molt like
labels off spice jars
You didn’t think
they’d cling / stick / persist
as you drown under the tap
trying to free yourself
I stopped sharpening my edges
nothing left
to nudge the stubborn
corners back from the glass
Bad move. Bad / bad / move
dull edges
doors unlocked
all the crevasses for the
loney lonely to:
seep / steep / stay
The Year I Turned into My Father
Caught myself:
judging someone for not
keeping up maintenance on their car
For not:
cross-checking prices
letting the meat defrost
in the fridge, overnight
letting it marinate
scraping down the grates
and for CHRIST SAKE—
indirect heat
I see my:
slouches
stifled chortles
slippers dragging—
soft words, I hear
after they’ve been excavated
like fossils
my voice a pitch higher
but only, for the cat
I’m:
drinking beer at midnight
tracking packages &
doing research—
I need answers on how
to strip a wood table without
vaporizing my lungs
the quiet makes time
fold in on itself
I’m sixteen & parenting can’t be so bad
doing:
research
lighting the charcoal &
smoking cigars on the deck
tiny practices that
excavate the soft words
you’re doing the work, kid.
Mackenzie Moore is a writer and illustrator based in Los Angeles. Her poetry chapbooks are forthcoming with Variant Lit and Kelsay Books—she has work upcoming in Rejection Lit, Wine Cellar Press and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine. She believes bagels heal most wounds.