My Last Night in Florida

And on the front porch
mom says she’s never seen anything like it:
Clouds roiled up in fists, lightning veins
ceaseless, like they must have their
Fingers clenched around the last breath
of something incredible.
Sister says it’s a sign
I’m not supposed to leave.
But she sees that everywhere.

They know I’m sick but not how bad.

I say I’ve got a hole in me
and sister says that’s something
she can understand.
But I’m not leaking
I’m taking on water. Bloated
and heavy like an old tree buckling
with fruit when the famine is over,
when it’s thanked for doing
what it always does,
when everyone is happier but the tree.

The doctors won’t call me back.
The rent’s too high for me to keep
buying fresh produce and the cat
threw up that afternoon, but oh
was he brave about it, saucer eyes
taking in the mess and me
on my knees.

Thunder finally arrives. Sister breaks
an orange from its branch and
offers me a slice.

We watch the storm roll in.

Kate Nezelek is a poet and fiction writer from Richmond, Virginia. She is currently an MFA candidate at Western Kentucky University.