The day after, I write a list

A poem

I write this poem as I’m doing the dishes.
Always by hand, one by one,  
I tell myself to remember 
what I’m saying: 

Wake up - done 
Talk to your mom - done 
Talk to you dad - done 
Text your sister - done 
Call your best friend - done 
Check email - done 
Reach out to your team - done

Remember what matters. 
Write it down. 
Make coffee.  
Fried rice for breakfast.  
Your crush. 
Listen to a song. 
Daydream to get away. 
Pull the trash cans to the curb.  
Go for a walk. 

Last night — 
we all went home 
when it was inevitable. 
We have each other, we say, 
and this unseasonably warm November evening.  

Last night —  when the votes reached 247 — 
at 11 pm, I went on Amazon to buy: 
11 boxes of condoms 
Three packages of Plan B 
Three boxes of vaginal contraceptive film. 
I tell my mom this in the morning — 
no shame in the apocalypse. 

How could I even think of sex 
in a time like this —
when desires are dashed. 
And how could I not think of sex 
in a time like this —
when I will always dream of desire. 

Amazon delivers most of it to my front door when I wake up. 

By that time, he had 277. 

Today, dry skin, the San Andreas winds.
I text my acupuncturist: “I may be late today. 
I feel ridiculous even saying this, but I have a new TV being delivered.” 
The TV was delivered. 
Packing peanuts everywhere, 
the men first saw the cracked screen. 
It’s broken, they say to each other in Spanish. 
They apologize to me multiple times. 
It’s not your fault. It’s the system. 
Thanks for the refund. 

On my walk, my dad calls to tell me: 
Your aunt and uncle have evacuated 
because of a nearby fire. 
How are you doing, he asks. 
Not great, I say. 
Do you have earthquake and fire insurance?

Check-in with M & K 

I text the women in my building: 
We need to get serious about disaster preparedness. 
I will begin researching what we need to do. 

"Take care of yourself," one responds. 
“We are five women living in a house — 
the wildest dreams of our grandmothers.” - done