response to “sure” by arlene tribbia

by christycelia

Men will come and go. They’ve persuaded me into tugs with simple phrases. So simple how could one argue,

sure.

But arguing is my secret desire, to win or not, to add “ahhs” to the end of words for the sake of emphatic feeling, to prove the point of fire in my bones.

I have a brother who understands the boiling temperature of iron, sure, but surely not the boiling temperature of my brain, or his own.

The only man who will never leave me.

I used to cross the street with no abandon, say to be taken from this world is an injustice built for a parallel universe.

Then, as he teetered on the edge of those universes, and I scribbled my family’s last will of invincibility, donating it to those who are not quite so strong as us, this is when I pretend to give up the requirement that he never leave me.

Sure, his leg twitched when I felt his strong feet.

Sure.

We are still uncertain of which realities to trust.

Nothing is for sure.

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