Clean Exit

I do not live happily or comfortably

In these clever times either, Mary Oliver.

The wrongness of it all unsettles me

Even though I can carry on

Get out of bed, brush my teeth, and steel myself for the day ahead.

The sadness of the bees is deafening

We adapt to their background tinnitus.

and act like we are without agency to course-correct.

One of my mother’s favorite stories to tell about me —

apart from the one where the boys chased me home with rocks

“because they liked me” —

is that my sister bit me so regularly

that my arms were full of bruises.

When asked who did it, my sister said, “Grandma."

Such a laugh she’d get for that.

No one asked me why I tolerated such aggression

because, well, that’s not so funny.

I hate liars.

Which is why, when she screamed, "Fuck you!"

into the phone,

I simply hung up.

No explanation.

No repair.

A clean exit. Finally, mine.