AMERICA'S LONELIEST WEEK

SAMIRA SADEQUE

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I know the shoe color and size of
every person dreading thanksgiving Here
outside Dr. M’s office many of us
are waitlists, we don’t look up and stare
our emptiness into each others’ eyes. “In session”
is code for please don’t look, i am here with you, we’re
in this together, but my hands aren’t yet ready
to wrap around

yours Here
in this office the air smells of warm carpet and magnolia
blues, I want to say thank you for the way she holds so many
of our spines at one a.m. or after office hours, she tells me
she will be gone for the holidays, I want to say thank you for
helping us wake up and prescribing just enough for the family dinner
upstate, letting us be waitlists at least, even though she will leave

for the holidays I open the door and say bye, she says stay safe,
maybe she fears the Thursday will split us open, everything
she’s been holding together this whole time
American loneliness n’ all. I try to say thank you, I hear myself:
Have a great one,

she says:

‘Thank you.’