Maggie Karlin

My parents miss another show. I am parked in their side thoughts while my brother's felonies blur past me in a breeze of red and blue graffiti. Our parents are empty can shells and busted pen fossils. They leave bouquets of unclapped hands on empty auditorium seats. Another tour of a holding cell. Gaze at my brother's canyon arms slipping ridges into iron cuffs. I wish my parents could see my words like they were spray painted out of my mouth or that my fingers were wrecking balls, and I could tear down this cell they've been holding me in.

-f-: