The whole middle, a core, the break, and all of June. Summer’s
worn-out deck of cards caving or giving way to a gentle rain. Finally,
no one worried in the meantime. Bathing suits dried under t-shirts,
under the real heat of the day. In the meantime, sour boysenberry
pie cooled off next to a mouse’s home in the wall, and he’d dart
around, drooling over each splayed treat, his mousey nails catching a
quick snack. The first time it happened, the mouse puckered his pink
lips and brittle teeth in protest, like a baby does after kissing an open
lemon. In the meantime, I share food with all the mice; we are
considered neighbors. Yellow tulips are there and, in the meantime,
so is thirst. In the mean time, there is also honesty. In the meantime,
everywhere else seems far: the grocery store’s second floor,
Saturdays when we see each other again, the bottom of any pool,
photos with cousins over an aunt’s frayed couch. The difference
between words like flint and jasper. In the meantime, I leave the
door unlocked for you to come over. In the meantime, war. In the
meantime, reading about what to feel about war, then drawing a
bath and staring at a timer. In the meantime, vengeance. In the
meantime, half of the cigarette. In the meantime, the news. In the
meantime, the news about birds. In the meantime, a temporary
bridge—but now it’s just the main entrance into the city. In the
meantime, a busted header and a drastic haircut. In the meantime,
everyone says you can’t come over. A car mechanic named Sal said,
“just for the meantime” to my grandma with advice to stop slamming
on her breaks so hard. After her tires popped, she called me but
meant to call someone else. In the meantime, she drives a Honda. In
the meantime, she can still drive. In the meantime, I dream of being
a child again in the back of a car. The dream starts with a smell of
sourdough bread and then there is a single trail of crumb leading
over my lap and out onto the seats—as if both my lap and the seats
are part of a fairytale path to freedom for something microscopic
and scared and trying to stay alive. If I move, there are stakes. If I
stay, there are stakes. When I raise my head to see who is driving, it’s
a graphite face of someone who mattered but I almost forgot. In the
meantime, lucid dreaming helps. In the meantime, there’s more
memory loss. In the meantime, just a sip to get me through the night.
In the meantime, there is always beauty. In the meantime, not yet.
