I
because in Cantonese, the word for 4 sounds like death, 14 is dead, 24 easy to die & who even knew
tetraphobia was a thing? & after death scrolling for hours it’s close to 4AM & I look at our pics
in the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square & the Great Wall & realize we have been here 14 days
& logically this shouldn’t make me spiral as I wonder what floor I’m really on—
II
& your body has managed to spread across the king size bed & I am left with a corner of the ecru sheet & the hotel TV offers only CNN & I learn LA is burning & there is yet another plane crash & every light in the room’s left on & I consider taking a shower or a Xanax & if I double my age I’d be 112 & I decide that still qualifies as middle age & you are 28 & I had you at 28 & I used to watch newborn-you
III
sleep under your pink blanket to make sure you were breathing & I am scared that I forgot
to deadbolt the door & I check again to see that my passport’s not lost & you are snoring & I wonder how long my feet will last & I don’t want to get Covid or the flu or food poisoning or clots on the 14 hour flight back as I stare at the alarm clock & debate the odds of a hidden camera in our room—
IV & now tidal waves crash against a mansion in Malibu & I marvel at the strength of the picture windows surprised how well we are both holding up & the dream home’s now on fire & I spy the 4 horsemen outside put on sensible New Balance shoes open the slider door wide—
give them 4 leaf clovers
Victoria Nordlund is the Poet Laureate of Glastonbury, CT, and lead master teaching artist of the The Nook Farm Writers Collaborative at The Mark Twain House & Museum. Her poetry collections Wine-Dark Sea and Binge Watching Winter on Mute are published by Main Street Rag. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee, whose work has appeared in PANK Magazine, Rust+Moth, Chestnut Review, Maudlin House, trampset, and elsewhere. Visit her at VictoriaNordlund.com