Glass Crib

They told me there would be a flood,

a sudden breaking of the internal dam,

but I am standing in a dry riverbed

looking at a stranger I’m supposed to love.

The fontanel pulses under my thumb,

a soft, rhythmic beating of wet paper.

It’s a terrifying, fragile machinery

wrapped in a blanket that smells of bleach.

I wait for the spark to catch,

for the heat to move from his skin to mine.

Instead, I just feel the weight of a debt

I have no currency to pay.