who do you blame?
I blame grandma,
though it was me who cleared it.
I know she was watching
me through the lids of her eyes,
her mouth hung open
as if it were on a sling,
watching me rattle
the liquor cabinet
out of disgusted distress,
as if there was a swarm of bees
in there I was trying to tick off,
and, admitting defeat,
dragged myself off my knees,
and stumbled past grandma,
hacking up phlegm,
my book-bag packed,
leaning out the doorframe
to join the reunion,
clasping costumed hands
I no longer recognize.
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