Sara Pronger
Holding Still
Gunfire.
My hand moves to the remote—
his hand finds my knee.
The mother lifts her child
through the frame.
He watches
the way he watches everything
he cannot fix—
steady, present.
I stay still.
Somewhere behind my eyes
the promenade deck opens—
warm teak beneath bare feet,
steel rail cool in both hands,
deep blue shelving into darkness.
I sidestep a shuffleboard cue.
Someone laughs.
The nappy—
sterile white—
I count vertebrae
pressing through skin.
The footage rolls on.
His hand warm still
holding my knee, saying:
this is what we owe.
My thumb rests on the remote.
