i wouldn't call it poetry

like hell

the car is crowded--
it reminds me of
the fridge, falling
apart, cluttered,
familiar

i watch them,
and for once,
i see it, i see
what i had
come to think
they lacked, what
i had come to miss,
if only subconsciously

"we may be poor,
but we laugh like
hell," my grandfather
jokes, eyes on her
as she smiles at
the road, content

"it's easier
than crying,"
he adds, and
i think i might
be doing both,
both crying and
laughing, like
hell, like the burn
of water in my lungs

i feel left out
of their inside
jokes, and it makes
me feel like flying,
like joy incarnate,
bubbling and burning
like water in the back
of my throat, which
is sore from singing
in the hallways

they look so in love,
they sound like
it's summer and
they're half my
age, and i'm
grinning hard,
enough for the
corners of my
lips to hurt, hard
enough for my
cheeks to grow
tired in the
backwash of
their happiness

i feel like
the daughter
of a newly
married couple

i feel like
the angel in
their sorry,
hellbound
heads