I cry beside
the dishwasher.
The comforting
mechanical noise
drowns me out,
so I don’t scare
the kids, and the
periodic whirring
and swishing of
water feels normal
like any other day:
the endless dishes,
the humming
backdrop
of the fridge,
the cluttered counters.
But this isn’t
any other day,
and it isn’t normal,
and I’m not sure how
to make myself okay.
We are not okay –
the country
and the world
are not okay.