Home is a little bit blurry.
Mom, I swear to you, it might not be
July next time I see you.
Your digital face is a little bit blurry,
but our lighthouse will always be
the one light in dark through memory,
right? I want to climb the ladder
to surveil the roof. Home has
become a wall of atrophied faces.
(originally published in The Writing Disorder, Summer 2021)