We're sick, fevers one hundred and two,
thermometers poked under our tongues
and forgotten.
In the day our mother off to work.
At night she soaks in the bath tub
hours on end,
courting a long-neck bottle of beer and
thinking (we're sure, we've talked it over)
of our father
who's disappeared.
Vanishing acts both of them.
Our faces are flushed my sister
bursts into a coughing fit and
our mother
never screams out from the bath tub
"Are you all right?" the way she did
in our happier days.
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