it’s 01:37 am and sophie wants to die.
i know she’s not joking this time because it’s all
lowercase.
(sophie is twenty-two and loses herself
like an earring dropped through a crack in the
floorboards)
im siry im grealk y frunk rihg nos
do you know where she is?
itd nir nt jokw
there’s nothing i can do from my shoebox in birmingham so i
(. . .)
so i sift through photos for clinking metal on porcelain,
rattling rusted cabinets, hash marks on
pillows.
i go back to london to see her.
she never liked makeup but today she’s wearing
lipstick.
when i am home it feels like
squeezing my feet in doll
shoes
and i understand sophie a little better, understand
that home is home once, and then it is a
dream
drawn on cafe napkins,
alien keys,
boxes.
Phoebe Kalid