by Stacy Skolnik
I.
My father and I have been watching each other die.
It is unavoidable. In between, we take breaks.
He takes a plane to Florida, visits my aunt,
watches her die instead. I go to work,
and use public bathrooms, and knock back gin,
and squeeze lemon into everything I drink,
but never bother to take out the pits.
II.
My grandparents and I have been watching each other die.
It is predictable. In between, we take breaths.
They go to the doctor, all different kinds of doctors,
and go out to dinner by five thirty, and indulge in pudding
or jello and have nothing in their fridge except yogurt.
I take walks around filthy cities, fantasize about
a clean one where I can stay and lick the gravel.
III.
My sister and I have been watching each other die.
It is impractical. In between, we rest. She drives
across an island, and ends up at home. She reads aloud
to herself and boils eggs until the middles turn
to chalk. I take the train across the same island,
and end up somewhere that is not quite home.
I can’t find home. It doesn’t bother me at all.
IV.
My brother and I have been watching each other die.
It is inevitable. In between, we recess. He sits
in a white room, alone, full of holes, singing,
even though he has not heard music in years. I watch
wheels spin, and make sure the spokes are straight,
and then bury them, funneling dirt into my eyes.
I have not yet gone blind, but am hoping that I soon will.
.
STACY SKOLNIK is currently a senior Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase, inching her way closer and closer to her imminent graduation. While she waits in hopes of figuring out, preferably by tomorrow, what she wants to do with the rest of her life, she just keeps writing and laughing in between bouts of anxiety.
