you are telling me about the year your father stopped driving
and my father is standing behind my tongue counting to three
the way he counted when the neighbors could hear him
a reflex i was fitted with at nine
in a house where whoever listened first got charged with something
i inherited the count
my thumb finds my knuckle and presses until it whitens
the room is safe and my hands don't know it yet
every pause of yours sounds like a floor being tested
my rebuttal takes the doorway
impatient and sweating through its good shirt
it has been practicing its handshake
you stop to breathe in the middle of a sentence
something in your shoulders unlocks and i feel it happen
i stay with it a moment longer than i usually would
the urge to cut in kicks once behind my sternum
i swallow the whole defense
and pass the bread
—lyra moon (a lifeguard's whistle has two settings and neither one means drowning)
september 30, 2026