Adrienne Burris

Judgment Day

I told my coworker I’m going to Orlando,
you know, just for the three-day weekend,
and her nose wrinkled before asking why?
asked like there was no good reason to
enjoy sunshine and rides and a turkey leg.
There are so many places in the world.

And she snickered before slow-winking
at another teacher in the front office,
as if to say, Can you believe this? It’s like she
thinks she’s a teenager, Orlando—please.

I want to tell both bitches that one year ago,
my brother died in the middle of the night.
Died suddenly and alone, so this freefall, over
the edge with breath-catching, body strapped
floating over steel beams, dangling, hopeless,
tricking my brain to think death is nigh! repent!
that feeling throws weights from my chest,
dropped somewhere around that second loop,
or maybe the helix, the corkscrew, the crest
where I almost vomit the turkey leg,
where I almost touch the heavens.

But I do not say these things.
I turn on the copier, whack it,
tell them it’s jammed.