Island

The news arrives wrapped in a Kleenex,
damp and gray, like a forgotten sock.
Mom's voice, a low rumble, the kind that
makes the walls sweat, Dad red-eyed,
gripping the armrest, knuckles the color
of overripe bananas. Words like shards,
"separate," "better for everyone," phrases
land heavy, like dropped dishes.
Suddenly, the house holds its breath.
Dinners tense, a battlefield of silences.
Everyone’s eyes the shape of storm clouds.
the air crackles with unspoken goodbyes.

Boxes grow like tumors in the living room,
each one a stolen memory packed away.
Dad hums sad country songs,
the one about leaving on a train.
Mom folds clothes, unblinking
each sweater a sigh escaping her lips.
I gasp for words, for air, for something fair.
Willing the humidity in the house to burst into a rain so we could all just cleanse
But dreading the drift

When the trunk slams shut
the last tether tears.
The car pulls away
and like a ribbon from the tailpipe, jangling with the tin-can sound of my empty family, the windshield broadcasts
“Just divorced”