i want to count time in the white black holes of my basketball
Lily Ross

when my  
mom talks 
loudly 
on the phone 
in the middle 
page of my book, 
i could 
kick her off 
the small 
overlook that’s 
to the left 
of my house — 
she wouldn’t 
die or anything, 
maybe break 
a bone or two 
and skim her 
belly when 
the cat cracks 
inside me 
and the goldfish 
whimpers that 
it’s time for 
his daily walk.  
i let plans 
for the day 
divide into 
other plans, 
confide 
in each other 
what they wanted 
in the first place 
out of life’s  
spinning 
cauliflower —  
but all i ate 
was roasted 
broccoli for 
dinner,  
which is 
actually  
my favorite. 
all of my 
dreams are 
too realistic, 
shaved heads 
and breakups 
on the 
living room  
couch and get togethers in  
shakespeare’s 
closet, while 
my dreams 
are dreaming  
for wolf-cat 
hybrids and  
school  
principals  
covered 
in cannabis 
and apple watches counting time 
in the white 
black holes 
of my basketball. 
the wind 
can’t take 
me down  
anymore 
like it did 
during that 
hurricane  
whose name  
i can’t  
remember — 
when the  
schools shut  
down and  
slimy candles  
slimed the house,  and life felt less blinding and 
more temporary.