Sarah Feldbloom

Months ago 
we woke snorting up 
brown and lime green snot 
We held hands and laughed about it 
lay beside each other in bed 
Took turns soaking the sheets 
with contagious sweat

At the bleating horn of the other’s alarm 
on mornings he or I could have slept in 
Instead, grabbing at the other 
before the day tore away to 
laces undone 
fumbling down Livingstone Street’s steps

Cold feet scalded sweetly on hot water bottles 
sainted long johns 
undershorts worn three days in a row 
piles of clean and dirty laundry on the floor

The first night unpacked 
we lay on the bed 
looked out the window to ocean cranes 
The mattress didn’t spring 
it absorbed our shapes

When he and I were in it 
it was hard to roll around 
so we pressed legs to legs 
licked each other like ice cream cones 
lost hairs in the sheets 
held on while we drifted off

Weeping by a fake porthole in the 
Hilton’s breakfast restaurant 
I eat seconds of bacon, and thirds

My grandfather wouldn’t have minded 
my breaking kashrut 
He would have whispered 
“I won’t tell if you don’t tell 
about the cheeseburger yesterday,” 
and chuckled sweetly

My mother is at her mother's place 
not listening to the sound of the phone ring—
sealing saran-wrap around 
a sponge cake, our Friday night leftovers 
soggy, teetering in the pan

The ocean solution looks like all of us—
in bits, floating wisps of white pollution 
What’s wrong doesn’t drown us 
We are doing dead man’s float 
except for grandpa

My sister arrives with the breakfast vouchers 
I get whatever I want 
before I figure it won’t be out of pocket 
I would pay for anything today 
even though I’ve been on boiled beans and rice for weeks 
had no choices to make about money

Her and cousin Jer come back from the buffet 
with full plates 
laughing about something 
Jeremy gets on the phone 
calling our younger cousins to join us 
We all eat as much as we can