1.
The fire hops the 405, the sky
is never blue again, and all the jacarandas
burn.
2.
The road’s sloping shoulder, freckled
with glass, my partner’s
car crushed into the divider.
3.
The lump in my left breast isn’t benign after all.
4.
I step on the spider in the bathroom.
5.
The spider’s eggs hatch. Little widows
flood from the baseboards, find their mother
a wet smear on the tile.
6.
My mother’s oncologist missed a spot.
7.
I finally get the call from my mom about my sister.
8.
Or, my mom asks me point-blank if I still believe in Jesus.
9.
Jesus is real and he’s disappointed.
10.
All of the bumblebees die.
My daughter never touches a sunflower.
11.
I have a daughter.
12.
I have a daughter, and she finds out
I never wanted children.
13.
My mom reads this poem and finds out
I don’t believe in Jesus.
14.
All the spiders and succulents and embryos I’ve killed
could feel it.
15.
Jesus is real and he meant it
about the lake of fire, about cutting off
your hands.
16.
My sister calls me from another bridge.
17.
I’m in the shower, stepping on the spider.
18.
I miss her call.
19.
I have a daughter
who is just like my sister.
20.
I have a daughter who is just like me.
21.
Jesus is real and the Catholics are right
about suicide. I get the call
from my mom about my sister.
22.
Or, I get a call from my sister about my mom.
23.
I follow swiftly after.
24.
My partner then crashes his car
into the highway divider; for good measure,
25.
the highway is on fire,
jacarandas burning
26.
like all of us in eternity’s lake.
27.
This is the lake and we’re already here.
—
Marisa Lainson (she/they) is a queer poet from Southern California. She recently earned her MFA from the University of California, Irvine, where she served as Poetry Editor of Faultline Journal of Arts & Letters. Their work appears in The Journal, Poet Lore, The Pinch, Frontier Poetry, Foothill Poetry Journal, and elsewhere.