Redshift 2020: Serena Eve Richardson

Redshift 2020
by Serena Eve Richardson

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My daughter unwraps a toy ambulance.
It takes two AA batteries, lights
up and sounds a siren. The truck gets tucked
into bed with my child later that night.

I scrape chocolate cake into the garbage.
I send photos to Grandma, cry at how
time slips away. Go out on the lawn and
pull up the stakes that spell Happy Birthday.

The neighbors watch from their shrouded houses.
Their attention is a dark sentinel.
They feel safe enough here, staying inside
close to supermarkets, the hospital.

There is no toilet paper on the shelves.
The traffic in the distance is wailing.