Fallout (Crank 3)

white-hot, unplanned, contagious.

Too quickly, she cools, pulls away.

Apology accepted. But no smile,

and she never doesn’t smile. I study

her face harder, find anger, concrete

in the set of her jaw, but eiderdown

sorrow in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She slumps against me, takes

refuge as her sadness flows, wet,

in steady tears. My dad walked out

on my mom. He wants a divorce.

THAT’S IT?

I’d like to feel sorry for her, console

her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.

But what I really want to say

is, “Big effin’ deal. Divorce?

At least they were together

while you were growing up.

At least you’ll get to see him

almost as much as you do now.

At least you know just who

in the bloody hell your father is!”

But that would take Nikki-Complete.

What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.

So I take her hand, lead her

into the kitchen, sit her at the table.

“I brought a little something

that will make you feel better.”

I twist one up, half expecting her

to say no. She only smokes weed