Juvenile Dependencies

By Nina G

I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day and I’ll realize we are not

functioning, that in the sweating, my eyes will not

open and that you will appear to me veiled and

screaming as our children drown in the river. I’m concerned

that we won’t try to help them, that 10-milliliter glass

vial hearts will bob up and down and we’ll release all

the syringes to float on the riverbed, tell them stories about

when we nearly met Death, or when his counterparts

sat at our table, drinking coffee and playing with their

hair. They leave lancets as tokens under our pillows. Awful

grimy patches on the chair from little death baby

kin who I tuck into bed. I sing them lullabies,

get cozy in my sheets until I feel the 3.4, 2.2, 1.8 on my

skin. Maybe this is our end. Maybe

we’ll see our red-hole-and-bump heaven, speak

to Señora Cetonas, ask her if stillborn acetone, acetoacetate,

and beta-hydroxybutyrate made it. I can see the

river floor from here. But then there’s the liminal

cord that pulls, makes me think in another life we could

have been friends, but in this one, I detest you

because I cannot love you, and despise even

more, that I need to.