Frost Warning
Letter
Weeks into rehab,
my wrist has managed
to give the rest of me
mercy.
Dusk drops.
Humidity
works its way
down into my joints.
Inside the LED fireplace,
red flames, blue flames
flicker
like ghosts.
Three teddy bears
my nephew left behind
lie sprawled
where playtime ended.
Beside our
accidentally ergonomic sofa,
perfectly molded
to someone’s backside,
a frozen wall clock
sits beneath
a plastic candle,
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bathed
in projected warmth.
The PVC floor
touches my bare soles
Ew
I curl
my toes.
Real things,
pushed aside
in the name of convenience.
Among all the things
that look almost real,
a handwritten note
from my husband,
clementine-colored,
dated today.
Code: unreadable.
Looking at his handwriting,
I start to think
maybe fake
isn’t so bad after all.
Clear tea
in my cup
covers its mouth
and laughs.
