Going through old records
I make dad play A Horse with No Name again.
He does so even as my mother insists
that it is too sad a song for me to like.
My heart monitors the seismic activity
of our home, pulse like needle
racing up and down my paper lungs
telling me when disaster will strike.
My mother sits on the floor with my Aunt Linda
sorting the string for their new sewing projects.
They warn me to be wary of the needles,
but I push my finger against the point anyway, testing.