I Waterlogged the Electric Kettle

Somewhere, you’re playing board games on the coffee table with the dual innocence where we once were as children,

but now we’re soiled skin.

There’s too much baggage in me and my brother’s bedrooms. So you start anew at six and seven years old. These are the benefits of skipping the younger years. While you’re at it, maybe fashion someone that will share in your condition.

Throw open the sash after Christmas and call down to the street, a spring cleaning of sons. I should have noticed sooner.

But you covered your bases, assured me of the unchanging nature of things. I remember you hugged me when I left for Ireland at the airport.

But it wasn’t changing, so much as shattering and rupturing at the veins. And you knew that well before then, since November or even before. You delayed me- got to me first. It wasn’t until months later that I noticed. I was in Ireland, standing at the sink, holding the electric kettle under the tap. I put things together, and forgot the water running cool over my hands.

The thought came then, and continued flowing into the sink.

REPLACED.

Replaced.

replaced.