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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