Katina Cremona

I hunt a chair, a heart thump away
from the door. Sink into my seat,

an imposter. A teen declares
he’s been clean for three weeks.

A chorus of applause. His mother’s tight eyes,
flighty smile from the trenches. I begin

to steep in their ritual of confession. Envious,
I dream your face at the door—

what miracle that could set in motion.
Obliged to explain myself—

I trash my sugar cravings, work
compulsions, feign coherence, confess

I’m waiting for my brother.
A copper-haired woman sobs,

thanks me for the memory jolt
of her family’s anguish. Others ghost-stare.

I’m a montage for the parents and partners
whose love they stunted. Don’t admit

I tried to pay you to come. That you don’t
see a problem. Please can I tell you

there’s a woman here who reminds me
of Natalie Portman. You should meet her.