In the group home kitchen on Tappen Street
I get the call about my uncle.
I am leaving for New York in 14 days and you are both gone.
He is never coming back.
I compromise words, speak less, listen to the critical
announcement that my father utters with pressured speech through the phone wire.
I breathe sharply between gasps, the dull ache of this new reality.
I wonder if he went out in a whisper, if the dirt will be the second
animal he can’t defeat, his heart didn’t take.
Addiction is a cancer.
The men in my family have consistently taught me that the people we love
hurt us the most, lest they hurt themselves.
On the highway swerving, I learn you are leaving Spain,
our relationship another tombstone, a failed attempt of passion turned violent.
I want you to be here with me. I don’t want you to be here with me.
I want a memory of men who stayed home at night,
who poured out the bottles, and flushed the pills.
I want a memory of men who didn’t make graves of their childhood towns.
Aubrey Lusignan is a 26 year old poet, Scorpio, and intersectional feminist residing in Bushwick, NYC. Aubrey has been writing poems since her childhood, searching for her own meaning in the madness and beauty of life. Aubrey has begun writing more consistently thanks to the Undercurrent Babes community and is exploring themes of family, womanhood, relationships, and body image.