I'm working on a new piece. I wrote some very anxious lines, that will turn into sound, that go like:
The night I found out you were coming
I walked across the street for groceries,
then fried eggs on the narrow stove in the apartment
where we planned to live until you could crawl
over to the drawers or the air conditioner,
find a pair of scissors, or press a button and dissolve
the oppressive radiator heat
to draw us together under blankets in our sleep.
Better that than finding a pair of scissors
or some powder under the sink
designed to break another nest apart and,
like a good worker,
carry it back on your body to the place where we sleep
and bury us all.
I seal kitchen cabinets with elaborate straps and adhesives,
your grandfather builds a staircase gate with the cat in mind,
but today at the doctor
a boy who hit his head was throwing up in a plastic bag,
and I wonder when our barriers
against sharps and poisons
will give out.