Leora Fridman

If Discomfited

Dear Wendy, what
makes the morning such
a quiet sell? I dreamt
an older woman had cancer
all through her bones,
so I sat her down
with my own mother
in an airport gate. I thought
we could all read novels
and know. They laughed, and
there were tropical destinations
outside. Pages fluttered
so shining. My mother was
so light. Into the small air
I let an action shrink.
Into the giant rectangle
that is lying, I fake another
happiness for what else
I could win. Tell me, Wendy,
when you buy it does the light
leave you? Do you get glossy shame?
They talked loudly and
were never embarrassed by
the crinkling. Still new
to one another, they developed
an unfamiliar rapport. I knew
them less. In the current events
they whistled through there
was also attire. I saw planes
and thought, still: I have more
questions to wish for. I have
no other fight.

Leora Fridman is a writer, jam-maker, translator and educator living in Massachusetts. Her recent and forthcoming publications are included in The Offending Adam, Sixth Finch, Country Music, Horseless Review and others.