Squares
Not really, no—
things weren't going too smoothly,
I remember telling you this morning
in the laundry room, the words sticking
in my throat like lint in a trap, as I folded
and re-folded a rag into perfect squares,
as if I could change the shape of things,
as if I could take the clothes from the dryer,
fold and pile them into the basket,
my troubles washed away with the detergent
and bleach, fresh and clean
I told you everything—the motel, the razors,
the call from the doctor at three in the morning.
The long, long drive to collect my brother and
his belongings, stowing my fear in the rear of
the empty U-Haul to make room for the map
plastered between my husband and I, guiding
us towards that apartment, those wrists.
Upon arrival, I find he looks the same, only
paler; a shade of life lighter, but I sidestepped
the matter, avoiding the purpose, speaking of
anything but the reason we were there:
the weather, reruns on t.v., his old knee injury
from a bike race gone too far. Here we are now,
loading boxes, gutting the place which now
blinked wide like an eye to see us off on the
long trek back, no room even to glance at the map;
now creased into careless halves, stashed in the
door of the rental van, relying on memory alone,
and, once home, parking the U-Haul sideways and
taking up three spaces, as it would not fit within
one tiny, tiny lot
Now, scrubbing the grape juice spots off the counter
for the umpteenth time, lowering the volume on
the ever-blaring t.v., and re-bandaging his damaged
wrists while trying to find myself somewhere
between the laundry and the dishes and the crying—
he's got his life back, what about mine? With my
husband urging continually in my ear: “You've
got to tell him; he's your brother”…
Right now, my blood's as thin as water.
*Cynthia Ruth Lewis currently lives in Sacramento, Ca. Her work has appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Canopic Jar, My Favorite Bullet, and others.
Squares has previously appeared in Underground Voices