The forecast calls for snow in the middle of April
and I think I might start talking to myself
again. At least my husband is home
so if my lips crack down the length of my neck
he can glue my flesh back together.
He promised if I pass out he'd call 911, but he gets mad
every time I call, so
I think he might be lying.

I stay outside until the edges
of the horizon burn purple;
I’m trying to soak up the sun
like a battery: if I drink enough of it in
it can't escape at nightfall.
I will be a nightlight unto myself.

How can my body stomach
Gatorade and pizza and a joint,
but not having a fourth baby?
I can't tell if I'm a soul anymore
or just a bunch of cells
trying to pass on my “unique genetic code.”
Pass on allergies and abuses
without a second thought.

I can't bear the thought

of my children not needing me,
their world continuing to spin
clear and bright—me a blur
around the edges.

Kara J. Page is a writer, visual artist, and cowboy. She writes about memory, family, and place and the strange places where those things overlap. She believes good writing should occasionally make you laugh, good boots should be broken in by soaking them in water and wearing them until they’re dry, and Garamond is almost always the correct font.