(ISO Marriage Proposal by Deborah A. Miranda)

The car is still in the shop,

we have about five dollars total

between us, the vent in the back

bedroom is spitting mould, and I’m worried

about my books, the tub is still clogged

after a bottle and a half of Draino

and a plunger and we need to call the landlord.

You’re helping your mom prep

for her GI surgery and pretending

like you aren’t worried about her,

for her sake. (You try

to fool me too, but you don’t.)

The coffee maker is broken

and we’re both bitter about it,

finding solidarity in grumpitude.

The mechanic calls you with an update,

and I watch as your face and voice don’t match.

“Okay. Thank you.” (Fuck.)

At least the rent is paid. It’s my turn

to feed the cats; I walk to the kitchen,

three sets of beady eyes follow my every move.

Two bowls of dry food for the babies

and a plate of wet “slop” for the picky one

who’s getting thinner no matter what we do. We both forget to feed ourselves enough to have started

a decent collection of prescription

supplements; the counter’s a battlefield

between our CVS and Walmart bottles

(We’ll see who wins).

We’ve got our almost-full-time

jobs and I’m almost done

with school. My Christian family

still thinks we’re only roommates,

getting through college.

Last week,

you secretly packed a lunch in my bag

when I had to work a double.