Prevailing Party

The subject line said confirmed.

I read it four times in the blue

of the laptop screen, the kitchen unwarmed,

and tried to feel what winning's supposed to do.

Months of it. Documented proof.

Every email calibrated to sound

measured, calm. I filed it. The truth

of the damage, itemized, bound

into a PDF. And here it was:

confirmed. The cereal in my bowl

had gone soft, the milk thin as gauze.

I put it in the sink. The scroll

of the case number meant nothing

to the drain. I stood there

with my hands still touching

the counter, the cold air

in the blue of the screen behind me,

still the prevailing party,

still alone, still unable to see

what I'd fought so hard to be.