Kate Wright

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The boys beg me to come
quarantine with them. Their mothers 
never taught them to cook a meal 
or be loved by a woman. Only one
of these is a skill easily learned
in a crisis by a late twenty-something
in a one room apartment. I imagine 
them sitting on a couch or in bed
as filth slowly settles—first, mold 
creeps at the edges of windows 
and shower doors, soon, a film 
developing on every surface. 
Strange times these are. Still,
the boys sit, cellphones in hand,
and tell me they miss me, tell me
to get in the car and drive. The dust 
collects around them in thick 
furry layers, soft and gray 
as cat’s fur. They are hungry 
for attention or food or something 
other than Coors and the empty pit 
at the bottom of their stomachs. I am lonely, 
too. Two glasses of wine deep
and I google one-way flights
to the cities where they live.
I take a deep breath, hands hover 
micrometers from keyboard, 
release breath, and close 
the page. I dig a sewing kit 
from a storage container to repair
the seam on a ripped shirt—
my hands pulling black thread 
through black fabric just like my mother,
my sister, my best friend
all taught me how to do.


Kate Wright received her BA and MA in English from Penn State and her MFA in Creative Writing and Environment from Iowa State. She is currently a PhD student in Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Up the Staircase Quarterly, Okay Donkey, Rust + Moth, Rogue Agent, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @KateWrightPoet